Reset
by Twisted-Optimism
Summary: When the Observer distracted Walternate at a key moment in time, he changed the world.  How would things happen if he hadn't?
1. The Beginning: Take Two

**AN: **I already have a story I'm pretty focused on, so this isn't a priority for me. However, if it's really well liked, I might change my mind.

**Summary**: When the Observer distracted Walternate from the cure, he changed the world. How would the story have gone if he hadn't?

* * *

><p>Walter felt the alcohol burn through his stomach as he watched his alter work. He tried hard not to feel the less generous emotions that were boiling up beneath the scotch; envy, bitterness, rage, and a cavernous grief so deep and dark that he wasn't sure he'd ever find the strength to pull himself out of it. He took another swig and considered taking something a little stronger. Until a few days ago, he hadn't actually taken any drugs in years, but he had everything he needed here in his lab to make them if he so chose.<p>

Walternate was in the middle of testing his thirty-eighth compound. Even despite all the alcohol he'd ingested since... well, in the last few days, he could still remember every chemical Walternate had added, every precise measurement, every temperature, every time delay. All the different compounds had burned their formulas into his mind like cattle brands – scars on his brain. Mementos of roads he hadn't tried. Roads that might have saved his son, had he been smart enough, fast enough.

Roads forever lost to him, now.

Something dark flickered in the corner of the Window - Walter glanced up and saw a strange figure in a suit. He was completely bald, lacking even the definition of eyebrows, and he was wearing a top hat. Walter blinked and wondered, absently, if the man was really swaying in that peculiar pattern, or if that was just an effect of the alcohol in his system. Logically, it was probably the latter. Probably.

He glanced back to the Window where Walternate yelled something without looking at the man in the suit. He'd obviously heard him, but he seemed a bit too focused at the moment to turn around. It turned out to be fortuitous, because the compound suddenly began to change. From the bottom, the color _shifted_, bleeding into a beautiful, luminous blue. Walter blinked and questioned himself silently - and desperately - if this were an effect of his blood-toxicity as well. But alcohol was not (at least in the amounts he had imbibed) a hallucinogenic. The color must be real.

Walter stood up and whooped. Walternate, unaware of the observation, threw both fists into the air and laughed triumphantly. The image grew blurry as Walter's eyes fogged with tears, and he spun in a circle, laughter bubbling up his throat, elation made audible, tangible. Rampant euphoria raged through his system, making him bend over, still laughing, still crying, to gasp for breath.

He stood up again, watching the blue fade back to red, and he was not afraid. It was merely unstable - not yet the final variant, but nonetheless _the cure_. He watched the other Walter hurry about his lab, grabbing other chemicals to stabilize it, and mentally calculated the time it would take to finish. It did not take long to come to a conclusion.

Walternate had plenty of time to save his Peter.

Walter smiled. "Well done, my boy. Well done."

But as a grinning Walternate ran out of the lab to call home, Walter felt his absence. The other lab was empty now - the mysterious bald visitor having disappeared at some point - and it seemed almost accusing. Mocking. There was the cure, in the middle table, surrounded by instruments and materials that would finish it, that would build it to its final rendition. There it was. Just beyond his reach…

Walter leaned back against the table, suddenly very drained. The joy faded to an echo, the laughter eased into a gentle, sad smile, and he was left only with the tears.

He knew it now. The compound. He knew exactly how to make it, and his mind - despite the drunken haze, despite the emotional surge, despite his bone-deep fatigue - was already racing through the more likely ways to stabilize it. He could have a completed cure finished by... oh, tomorrow, if he hurried.

And it wouldn't change anything. If he'd seen this a month - a _week_ - before, it would have mattered. But now? God, _now_?

His son was dead.

And nothing really mattered anymore.

He opened his mouth, feeling his jaw quiver and his eyes well up as - once more - that endless pit of grief opened up inside his stomach, and swallowed him up whole.

"Take care of him." He whispered to the Window, to the Walter on the other side who had succeeded where he'd failed, and turned silently to leave.

His son was dead.

* * *

><p><strong>*Twenty years later*<strong>

_She ran through a forest, calling out names she couldn't remember, of people who didn't exist. _Things _that didn't exist. She looked up to the sky, and beyond the canopy a bloated white shape floated by. Some distant spot-light swept past, hitting the blimp, revealing its true form. _

_Olive turned and followed it through the trees, glancing up to spot it, to make sure she stayed on target. Before long, it got ahead of her, and she began to run - desperate to stay within sight of her only landmark, to anchor herself to something unique here, in this forest of silhouettes and shadows. _

_Something was chasing her through the forest. At first it looked like simple shapes, and then like people, and then like beasts pacing her just out of sight. Olive ran harder, glancing up yet again towards the canopy. But she could see only black sky beyond them, with ambient light hiding both star and moon's light from her. The blimp was gone._

_Olive ran harder, hearing louder and louder footsteps, harsh breathing just behind her neck. Something at her heals, crushing leaves, brushing its hand along her back. _

_Olive sobbed, trees blurring, leaving the whole of the forest a blur of black, brown, and green smudges. But still, despite the tears, despite the shadows, she could see those forms out of the corner of her eye. Flickering, growing solid. Coming closer. _

_Lips against her ear. Clawed hands reached around, ready to grab her, ready to wrap her up and pull her back into the shadows. Despite the claws, despite the odd, boney structure of the fingers, she knew those hands – they were the hands that had wrapped around her mother's throat when she was five and crying. Or they were the hands of the Dream-Man – the one Olive never saw, but could feel dwelling in that forest, in her mind, just out of sight… _

_The hands brushed against her face, claws tearing skin. Olive screamed "No!" _

_And burst free of the forest. _

_The sounds of pursuit faded. The flickers receded, taking with them the monstrous arms and the hot breath against her temple. And before her lay a beautiful city - something out of a fairy tale. Tall buildings filled with light, and blimps floating towards them, shining lights of their own. A fairy city. Olive gasped at the beauty and at the sudden feeling of freedom - of safety. _

_She turned back to the forest, and saw it returned to normal. Tall trees swaying in the breeze, the distant coo of an owl. The shadows at its base had become simple shadows - guileless, sleepy shadows, empty of monsters or beasts. Olive smiled and turned around, her eyes seeking that fairy city once again. _

_But instead, she found herself face to face with herself. Only, this other self had eyes swirled with yellow and black. There were no pupils, but Olive knew the other her was looking at her too. _

_And the other Olive smiled. _

Olivia jerked awake with a gasp, vaguely aware that she hadn't taken a breath for a while. It wasn't uncommon for her to hold her breath during a nightmare. She sat there for a minute, looking around the dark bedroom of her apartment, searching for yellow eyes, for hands, for monsters.

Then she blinked and buried her hands in her hair. Already the dream was fading into the recesses of her memory, to be forgotten like so many of her dreams.

"Shit." She muttered, rubbing her scalp with her palms. This was so _stupid_. Four years in therapy, and she was still having the same damn nightmares?

Olivia took a deep breath to bring calm, to just let go of the dreams, of the old feelings, the way she'd been taught. She took another deep breath, and another, and before long the shaking in her hands had eased, and the cold sweat on her forehead dried. She was herself again. Calm. Controlled.

_Breathe. _

After spending a moment clearing her head, Olivia threw back the blankets and got up. It may only be... 4:15 AM, but all that meant was that she'd have some time to work out before she took her shower. Then she'd head up to work and try, yet again, to get Broyles to see her as the good FBI Agent she was, and not just the bitch that'd gotten his "patriotic" friend indicted with sexual harassment.

Olivia sighed. It might not have been so bad if she and John hadn't been fighting. A week beforehe'd intercepted a call from a college kid wanting to interview her for some kind of report. It wouldn't have been a problem if it'd been because she was a cop, but he'd been looking specifically for "abused kids" who lash out. He'd found an old article about Olivia's… experience, and he'd wanted her story.

John had had no idea until then, and when he'd asked her about it – in a sweet-hearted attempt to comfort her, probably – Olivia had gotten defensive. She hadn't meant the all the things she'd said that day, but she'd been completely honest when she'd told him she didn't want to talk about it.

Of course, then she'd kicked him out, which she'd immediately regretted. John was a very good looking man, and it'd been a long... _long _time since she'd been involved with anyone. But relationships meant intimacy, and intimacy meant sharing, and – well...

Certain experiences had meant Olivia wasn't real good at sharing.

But John was a good man, and he was obviously trying not to take it personally. Nonetheless, it made the workplace even more awkward than it was before. If this hadn't been the job she'd dreamt of most of her life, she probably would have put in a formal request for reassignment.

Olivia told herself not to think about it as she started doing push-ups. The fight-or-flight tension that'd sky-rocketed in her during their argument had faded by now, and she was starting to miss waking up in John's arms.

Olivia sighed, finished her push-ups, and rolled onto her back. John would forgive her – in fact, if the sad looks he'd been sneaking at her were any indication, he probably already had.

_But have you forgiven him?_

She shrugged the uncomfortable thoughts aside as she pulled herself up and headed for the shower.

* * *

><p>By the time she got the phone call, Olivia had forgotten all about the dream.<p>

Walking through a plane filled with skinless corpses was most definitely _not_ what Olivia had expected to do that morning. And that evening, watching John – the man she'd shared a bed with for the last several months – disappear behind flames and shrapnel was... beyond horrible. And when they let her into that room, to see John almost... almost _rotting _right there on the operating table, and knowing that this man – this _good man _– who cared about her was probably going to die, and she couldn't help him...

The guilt grew from the back of her throat as she looked down at the purple musculature system that _should _be hidden behind lightly tanned skin. She couldn't see the scar on his arm, or the hair on his chest, or the birthmark she'd found on his hip.

His skin was like paste, like wet paper machee -

Olivia swallowed back a sob. That guilt whispered in her ear, gnawed at her, pushed her to _fix _it, to fix _him_. To explain to him that she'd just been scared to get too close, scared that remembering the horror of her childhood would make it _real_, but he was one of the few people she_._.. that she…

She had _so few_ people who were important to her. She could _not_ lose him.

Four hours later, an exhausted Olivia printed off the article on Dr. Walter Bishop and prepared herself to argue her case to Broyles.

* * *

><p>Walter poked at the butterscotch pudding and shivered in revulsion. Of all the puddings he'd ever tasted, this was by far the worst. Even when compared solely to the other pudding flavors - or, fla<em>vor <em>rather - served here at St. Clair's, where nothing palatable was ever really served. Well, except when on certain medications; with chemical aid, anything could become... _almost_ delicious.

But then, on others, he could barely stand to eat at all.

Walter spooned up a bite of the pudding and wondered what he'd been thinking about a moment ago. Something about... about... something. Dreams, maybe. Dreams and… Windows. The recipe for LSD. Peter playing with a silver coin, just like Walter taught him. Strawberry milkshakes. Piano playing.

Special, special children. Bell. The genetic similarities between bovine and homo-sapiens – the musculature, the cell wall... Ring around the rosie, pockets full of posies. The periodic table, missing elements. Theoretical elements. Orders to dissect – a harmless prank really, except it wasn't because he'd always known –

The - oh, dear God, what in the world was he _eating_?

Butterscotch pudding.

Oh, yes. Right. Mondays were pudding day. It must be Monday. Walter frowned. Hadn't they had pork-steaks yesterday? They didn't make pork-steaks on Sundays -

"Hey! Dr. Bishop!" Walter looked up to see one of the nurses - a tall, buff man with short, curly hair. "You've got a visitor."

The man walked over to Walter's side, grabbed him firmly - but not roughly - under the arm and steering him up and out of the chair. He took Walter across the room, over to the door the inmate hadn't passed through in years; the door to the visiting room. Only his wife was left alive to visit him. Or his ex-wife, rather, in light of certain... events.

But she was his only living relative, according to the courts.

Bishop smiled through the fog and the roiling confusion. She wouldn't have come just to visit him - she'd only come if something happened. She'd sent him a letter to tell him she'd remarried, and she must know it would only hurt him to know any news about this new family of hers. So, he knew what this must mean.

They needed him.

He knew they'd come for him someday - for the things that were buried in his brain. When the world started to break down, they'd come for him. But... what did he mean by that?

The visitors' door opened. Bishop walked through, confused, but ready to bargain for his freedom.

A petite blonde woman in a suit looked up at him from where she sat, elbows on the table, fingers interlaced, and smiled. There was something... something _familiar_ about her, about the color of her eyes, about the shape of her face... but the where and when of it escaped him, and in a moment he forgot about it entirely.

"Hello, Dr. Bishop." The blonde woman said. Mentally, Bishop calculated the rough percentage of the human population that were blondes, the comparative cell structures of several different mammals, and his - at this point only theoretical - new recipe for custard. And, for some bizarre reason, he pictured a classroom filled with children in a circle.

"My name is Olivia Dunham."

For a second, he _almost_ remembered that name. It was significant, he knew. Important, somehow, and... familiar. That circle of children flashed briefly behind his eyes, and then disappeared.

But then that thought too drifted from his grasp – wind through the ruins of a great, great mind.

* * *

><p><strong>On the "Other-Side"<strong>

Peter smiled at the Serbian, and calmly outlined his business proposal. It was highly-illegal, but the Serbian had never shown any law-abiding tendencies, and so long as nobody was going to get hurt... Well, Peter was all for making a little easy money. Besides which, if his father were ever to find out...

Peter hid a dark smile at the mental image.

After the deal was completed, Peter took the elevator down to the lobby and headed out toward the parking lot, feeling a smirk pulling across his face as he fiddled with his keys. He had a job (for a while), a gorgeous place to stay, a decently challenging con to pull off...

Life was good.

As he walked, he caught a glimpse of a red-head walking toward him from the reception desk. He noticed something familiar immediately, and subconsciously slowed down to get a better look. Something about her face - her amber eyes, maybe the shape of her jaw -

When the memory of a blonde haired girl with blood on her face abruptly solidified in his mind, he almost missed a step. As it was, he jerked to a halt and gaped quite obviously. He was so lost in a sudden wave of painful nostalgia that he missed the swell of confusion on her face.

"Olive?" He whispered while wonder and terror fought for dominance over his expression. The red-head was too far away to hear, but he saw the look on her face turn just a little bit guarded at the question anyway.

"Uh - Hey." She said as she stopped a couple feet in front of him. "My name's Olivia Dunham. I work for Fringe Division; your father sent me to pick you up."

Peter didn't even hear her. He was too busy looking over her face, remembering the shape of her nose, the angle of her cheekbones, the width of her eyes. She looked like... well, like herself, just all grown up and... more _solid_ somehow, although not even Peter understood what he meant by that. He looked into her eyes and immediately noticed the biggest difference.

She was open.

The last time he'd seen her, she'd been... scared. Terrified, even, although she hid it well. Obviously wary. There'd been emotional walls – walls no fifteen year old should have had any reason to build up. She'd been... almost _broken_.

And now she was whole.

There was more, though - something else that didn't make sense. He'd remembered the walls and the fear on her face, but she'd always had a smile for him. Whenever she saw him, she lit up like a Christmas decoration – bright and pretty and loving. But now... Now there was no recognition on her face at all. Like she'd...

Could she really not remember him?

He was surprised how much that hurt, even ten years after she'd disappeared.

Olive - or rather, _Olivia_ - cleared her throat and looked to the side, her hands disappearing into the pockets of her leather jeans. Peter blinked. Apparently all this staring had made her uncomfortable. He shifted, did his best to erase all visible signs of his emotional turmoil, and shook his head.

He wasn't sure what to say. Should he confront her? Just demand to know where she'd gone so long ago, even though it was obvious she'd forgotten all about him? And knowing that she's _apparently_ had a much easier time forgetting him than he had her, was it really a good idea to ask _any _of those questions? It would be like showing her a neon sign explaining how much she'd messed with his head. After all, he could _still_ remember her favorite candy some ten years after she'd disappeared off the face of the planet.

But what if he pretended_ not _to know her, and it came out later? Could he really pull off _faking_ surprise? With anybody else it'd be easy, but Olive... Hell, could he even manage not to bring it all up himself?

Five minutes before, Peter had been happy. Hell, he'd been _smug_. And now, this wonderful little reunion had thrown him for a loop the size of Alaska, and he found himself floundering for a plan.

So, in the absence of such a plan, he changed the subject, "You work for my father?"

"In Fringe Division. Yeah." A brief, beautiful smile crossed her face - making Peter blink. That was _not_ an Olive expression. He'd seen a mix of mirth and nerves and pride and a really weak attempt at humility in there. He'd never seen that much emotion on Olive's face over something so trivial. She looked back at him, smile weakening at the tense expression on his face. "He - uh. Sent me here to get you."

Peter raised an eyebrow, noting the slip and repetition. He carefully glanced over the muscles in her face (especially around her eyes) for tells. Absently, he noticed her hooking her thumbs into her pockets – in this case probably a blatant expression of bravado in an attempt to hide nerves. He wasn't sure whether he should be happy or bitter about this advantage she'd given him; he'd never been able to read Olive this easily before.

"Did he." Peter muttered, watching the sudden tension around her eyebrows. She wasn't expecting that reaction? Odd. Did she expect him to _jump_ at the opportunity to visit dear old dad? Even if she didn't remember all those months of his complaints about Walter, she really ought to have guessed that if Walter had to send someone half way across the planet to _pick him up_ instead of just calling Peter over himself, it wasn't likely to go that smoothly.

Peter grinned, a petty, childish and completely short-term sort of plan forming in his mind. It wasn't a permanent way of handling things, but... hey, he didn't have anything else to do. Why not?

"Well. That's too bad, 'cause I'm not going." He spun on his heel and started towards the parking lot, reveling in the glimpse he'd caught of her shocked expression. He turned his head to shout over his shoulder, "_So_ sorry he wasted your time, _Miss Dunham_."

He was actually a little surprised at how close he was to the doors before she caught up with him. She hurried to stand in front of him, blocking his path, her jaw now clenched and her eyes narrowed. She made a rather pathetic attempt to smile at him, then opened her mouth to talk again. He dodged around her. She blinked, jaw opening and closing rapidly for an instant – shocked more at his slight in general, or at this blatant lack of manners from the Secretary's son? – before she recovered and slid back in front of him, her expression now blatantly annoyed.

Peter sighed, faking a lot more irritation then he actually felt.

Olivia smiled thinly. "I'm sorry, _Mr. Bishop_, but this was under the express orders of the Secretary. You are to return home to Boston immediately."

Peter felt his face go still, amusement immediately gone. "Boston is _not_ home." He dodged around her again, now gripping his keys and walking just a little bit quicker. "And I'm not going anywhere."

Olivia followed - this time, thankfully, not getting in his way again, but walking at his side. Peter noticed a lot of emotions on her face out of the corner of her eye - he didn't even have to look to know how she felt. He used to dream of the day he'd get to see her like this – when she'd walk at his side, healed and free from her past. He felt another throb of pain, and wondered if it was really because she'd changed so much, or if it was because he hadn't been the one to change her.

She was saying something, but Peter ignored it. The sudden flare of frustration he felt was directed at himself this time. God, it was _ten years ago _he'd last seen her! He'd wasn't the same guy he'd been back then. He'd dated - even been engaged once, although he wasn't sure that counted, considering he'd had an angle. But seriously - they were just teenagers the last time they'd seen each other! Kids! What was the matter with him, that he was letting such... _old news_ get to him like this?

He remembered the last time she'd seen her, and how distracted she'd been. When she hadn't shown up to their next meeting, he'd gone back every night to that same meadow hoping to see her. Days had past, and he'd started wondering about that expression on her face. Had something changed? Had her step-father come back and… and done something? Was Olivia… dead?

Peter'd been so terrified. He'd looked everywhere for her, but he hadn't even known her real name. He'd spent months looking, wondering, hoping she'd come back. And even after he'd accepted the fact that she wasn't coming back, there was still that voice in the back of his head spinning theories and asking questions. He still thought about her every now and then; he couldn't help wondering if she was out there, talking to a friend about 'this one guy' way back when, or if her bones were lying in a ditch somewhere nobody would ever find them…

A thought came to him, and Peter slowed as he thought it over. Was that why she didn't remember him? Maybe… maybe something big had happened. Maybe it was traumatic enough that she'd mentally retreated, blocking out the memory. And maybe it'd been a strong enough block to cut off all memory she'd had of him?

Peter shook his head and pushed the thought away. No use speculating; he couldn't prove any of it at the moment, and it might make him look for answers that weren't really there. Best just to play this situation by ear and keep an open mind.

" - op, are you listening to me?"

"No. " Peter said firmly. He felt a little spike of vindictive pleasure at the poorly concealed irritation on her face. Instead, he mentally attempted to pretend she was someone else - just some crony of his father's. And maybe she even was. Maybe he was imagining the physical similarities because... because he wanted, deep down, to believe it was her. Or maybe there were two Olivia Dunham's in the world, and they happened to look a little alike. After all, he'd spent years after she'd disappeared seeing her face, her hair, her _body type_ in perfect strangers. He lost count of how many times he'd grabbed onto some poor, random girl in a crowd, only realizing too late that it wasn't her.

Peter shook his head, pushing back the memories. "And I'm not going back. Sorry, lady, but there's no way in hell."

His car was in front of him now - closer than he'd thought - and he clicked off the alarm and hit the unlock button on the remote. He reached over and opened the door -

Olivia leaned past him and slammed it shut.

Peter looked down at her in surprise and caught her eyes. He stared, swept up in a sudden wave of deja-vu, and realized that the first time he'd kissed her, they'd stood about like this. They hadn't touched anywhere else, but they'd stood so close he could feel the heat coming off her body, and he could see the flecks of green in her eyes.

Peter swallowed, and the memory disappeared. The vision had come and gone in the space of an instant, and now he stood looking down at a changed Olivia - a red-head with bangs, wearing leather, faking bravado, and with a face as open as the sky. And she was _pissed_.

"Look, I _get_ that you're a con man. I _get_ that you have zerorespect for authority. And I even _get_ that you don't like your father." Olivia snarled. Peter blinked; yet another new expression for Olive. Or... well, at least new as far as he'd experienced them, anyway. "But I have orders to take you back to Boston, and so you've got only two options. You can come willingly, or I can slip an anonymous tip to your Serbian friend on exactly how it was you ripped him off, and see if you aren't feeling a little bit more _agreeable_ then."

Peter stared for a second, then shook his head. There was a time he would have said she'd never do that, but... well, it was obvious he didn't really know this Olivia. And she'd proved that she had a temper already, so the chances that she'd go through with it - even after factoring in her obvious admiration for his father - went _way_ up. After all, she didn't have to let the Serbian actually _get_ him, she just had to let him close off any of Peter's other options. Peter sighed.

Whatever. He could let her take him to Boston, then find a blimp to some little dinky town on the East coast and fly back out. It wouldn't be long before he had a new job.

Besides which, there was a lot to consider with this whole Olivia/Olive situation. Not the least of which was why his father had sent her, when Peter knew perfectly well that Walter remembered Peter's first love.

One way or another, he'd have to talk to the old man anyway.

He just wished he didn't have to spend time with perky Olivia to do it.

* * *

><p><strong>AN<strong>: Review - tell me whatcha think.


	2. Gently Down The Stream

**Disclaimer: **Should have put this in the first chapter too, but I forgot. Let this be for chapters one and two though; I do not, have not, and will never own the Fringe series. All of its characters, inventions, and script belong solely to… whoever it belongs to. Who is not me. I disclaim it.

Moving on.

**AN: **Still focusing on my other story, mostly because I have no idea where I'm going to go with this. Oh – I have a whole history already set up, and a vague idea of what I want to do with everything, but I haven't the faintest idea how to end it, and I don't like getting too far in a story without knowing the conclusion. It feels like steering a boat in a storm while blindfolded, and I'm not particularly fond of that feeling.

Hope you enjoy the update.

**Summary**: When the Observer distracted Walternate from the cure, he changed the world. How would the story have gone if he hadn't?

* * *

><p><em>Olivia was spinning under the stars in a field of flowers. <em>

_They spun above her, leaving circular trails of light in the sky. _

_Round and around and around she went, faster and faster until the sky was filled with deep black and glowing white rings. Some part of her wondered if she should be dizzy, but the sky was gorgeous and the answer didn't really matter, so she let it fade away._

_And then she was falling, gentle as a feather drifting on the breeze. His arms were around her and she felt... safe. Completely safe, the way she only ever was with him. _

_She kept her head pressed into his shoulder, hands flat on his chest, dizzy now where she hadn't been before. The soft rumble of his laughter made her heart ache, and as if he could sense her sudden pain, he pressed a gentle kiss against her hair. _

_"What're you doing, Olive?" _

_Olivia frowned; John didn't call her Olive. Nobody called her that, not since... _

_She couldn't remember. _

_But then, she should've known this wasn't John. John made her feel beautiful and capable and _alive_. Sneaking around with him had been like reliving the teen years she'd never really had, and she'd loved the rush it'd given her. He'd never made her feel _safe_. Nobody did, anymore. _

_She looked up to see who he was, but he had no face. She knew he was smiling and that he cared about her, though, so it didn't really matter. He was her refuge, her best friend, her life line. He kept her sane – he gave her someplace to hide even when everything around her felt threatening. He was... he was... _

_The name came softly to her mind – a whispered word, one last waking breath. _

_"Peter?" _

_But the name brought no clarity. _

_The face was still gone. _

_The shadowed place where it should have been smiled down at her, and she was not afraid. She ran her fingers through dark hair, faintly recalling a fumbling, timid kiss, and she pulled him gently down towards her. She'd kissed him before – that much, she was sure of – and maybe another kiss would help her to remember when it'd been... _

_He sang, "Row, row, row your boat..." _

_Olivia leaned away and, for just a second, saw the flash of a young face through the shadows. _

_"Peter, what –"_

_"Gently down the stream..." _

_Olivia frowned as the memory began to pull away. The inky night sky disappeared, and then the field, and the flowers, and the unacknowledged, distant lull of voices. Even the feel of his chest under her fingers and his hands around her waist began to fade – _

_"Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily..." _

_She wanted to ask him why he was singing, but when she opened her mouth, she couldn't remember his name. _

_He disappeared, and left her mind empty of all but the shadows, the smile..._

_And the song. _

_"Life is but a dream."_

Olivia woke up.

She tried to hold onto the dream, but before long only the vaguest of details remained. She remembered holding somebody at night, and hearing a song, but –

"Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream..."

Olivia blinked. Who was – ?

Oh. Right.

"Walter." Olivia muttered, one hand coming up to rub her sleepy eyes.

It hadn't taken much effort to convince her new superiors in the Fringe department that they needed Mr. Bishop's expertise. It'd been a lot harder getting the courts agreement. At first, they'd only been willing to grant the Fringe division's request if the former Mrs. Bishop would agree to take formal custody of her unstable ex-husband, but she'd answered with a firm and immediate _no_. She had a family and a job waiting for her back in California, and she wasn't willing to let Walter "ruin that" for her.

Fortunately, Fringe and its contacts had just enough political clout to convince a judge that custody could be safely transferred to another person – preferably a loyal agent of the government who could keep an eye on the man.

_Un_fortunately, that agent was one Oliva Dunham.

Olivia groaned and pulled herself out of bed, mentally preparing herself for another hour or so of comforting her new, nut-case roommate. She'd felt a lot more sympathy for the man before she'd been saddled with him. He couldn't be trusted alone, and Broyles had said she had a real knack for "handling him". She wasn't sure what he meant by that, considering she couldn't understand a damn thing the good doctor said to her, even on his good days. To make it worse, they'd built bedrooms inside his Harvard lab for the two of them to use.

Little rooms.

_Ugly_ little rooms.

But tonight, when Olivia dragged herself to his door to find the source of the singing, he wasn't in his bed. This wasn't unusual for Walter; Olivia had found him wondering the halls more than once before she'd had a lock installed, and he often decided to cook things on the bunsen burners in the middle of the night. But at least this time the bed was missing its comforter, so it was a fair bet he was trying to sleep _somewhere_.

"Row, row, row your boat..."

Olivia turned towards the his closet and sighed.

She pulled the closet door open and found him, curled up with his comforter in the corner, blinking at the sudden intrusion of the light. "Walter... what're you doing?"

"... Ms. Dunham? Is that you?"

"Yes, Walter. It's me." Olivia brought her hand up to rub her eyes again. "Why are you in the closet?"

"I... I can't sleep." Olivia slowly slid down and sat against the door frame. _Not _sleeping. Yet another thing he did more often than she was comfortable with. Usually when Walter couldn't sleep, he found something to do, and he'd just keep going and going until the exhaustion forced his hand. It wasn't good for him, but Olivia had figured he was just trying to get used to his new living situation, so she hadn't said anything – she just helped him up and shuffled him back to bed.

Obviously, though, that wasn't actually fixing anything.

"Why can't you sleep?" She asked, hoping he knew.

Walter blinked and smiled that wide-eyed, nervous smile. "I... At St. Claire's, I... I slept on a much _smaller_ bed. It was... it was not very comfortable, and there were velcro straps along the sides just in case I –... Just in case a patient became uncooperative. And at night, every night before I fell asleep, the man in the cell next to mine would always _sing_ – row, row, row your boat... Always that song, over and over. Nothing else..."

Walter's smile lost a bit of its stiffness as he stared off into the corner of the closet, obviously a million miles away. Olivia watched for a moment before closing her eyes in discomfort; despite everything Broyles had said about her being "good" with the man, she didn't have the slightest idea how to handle this. To be honest, she wasn't sure she'd even _care_ if it wasn't her job.

On the one hand, he'd saved John's life, which was a mark in his favor – even despite John turning out to be a lying, double-dealing scum bag. He'd used sciences beyond any modern understanding, and proven once and for all that he could help the Fringe division. He was also completely harmless; nothing more than a confused, rambling old man filled with sharp regret and lost time. The fact that his downward spiral had begun with the tragic death of his young son some twenty years before certainly inspired pity – especially if you added into that the fact that the man was mentally devastated by his seventeen year stay in St. Claire's.

But, whatever pity Olivia felt was matched by an automatic, instinctive distrust of the man. Something about him seemed... _familiar_, almost. She'd thought back carefully, searching her mind year by year to try and place his face somewhere in her past, but she couldn't remember ever having met him before. Not that that was any guarantee, considering how little she remembered of her life between the years of six and fifteen, but he'd been in St. Claire's for most of that time anyway, so the chances that she'd just seen him around were pretty slim.

Yet, despite how irrational it was, he still made her feel small and timid and _different_.

And Olivia _hated_ that feeling.

But seeing him sitting in the closet, clutching his comforter and looking like nothing more than a lost, broken old man, all Olivia could feel was compassion.

He looked almost like her niece...

With a sigh, Olivia pushed herself to her feet and offered her hand to Walter. "Come on, big guy. Let's get you to bed."

Walter glanced up at her uncertainly, and then let her help him up. She did what she'd always done before – she led him to his bed, pulled his comforter over him, and walked over to the light switch. But this time, after she'd turned off the lights and closed his door behind her, she sat down against the wall.

"Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream..."

"Olivia? Is... is that you?"

"Yes, Walter. It's me."

"Oh."

Olivia smiled and closed her eyes, the back of her head gently falling against the wall. "Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream... Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a dream..."

* * *

><p><strong>~*On the Other Side*~<strong>

Several hours and one very awkward private jet flight later, Peter found himself standing in the shadow of the D.C. Department of Defense building. Dunham outpaced him, glancing back ever few steps to stare him down, _willing_ him with her mind to hurry his ass up.

Peter found it strangely unintimidating.

Oh, he'd seen her take down a mugger on the way to the landing strip, and she was pretty impressive in a fight. She'd also told him - twice - that she'd won an Olympic medal in marksmanship, so he'd 'better not try and run'. But honestly, she wasn't the only one who could hold her own in a fight (Peter had spent too long in – er – somewhat less than _respectable _company not to learn a thing or two), and guns were only useful if you intended to _use_ them. And Peter was certain she wouldn't actually shoot the Secretary's only son.

… Probably.

But more than that, she was just way too easy to read. Well... maybe not _that _easy - she was actually not as easy to read as a lot of people he'd met on his travels, but he'd spent so many years in her company during his childhood, and he _knew_ her tells. But with this new, flashy Olive, he didn't even need most of them anymore. She was so much more open now then she had been.

Still, he found himself thinking of her in terms of a mark. If he was careful, he was pretty sure he could spot lies or suspicion with enough time to react accordingly. Which made her a cagey mark, maybe, but not a _dangerous_ one. Well, beyond the shooting thing, anyway.

He came back to the present and saw her idly tapping her foot. Peter rolled his eyes, wondered how much it would piss her off to call her 'prissy', and then started to make his way up the stairs toward the main entrance.

Walter was on the top floor. In fact, pretty much that entire floor was strictly for his personal use. He had his office and several personal rooms up there, most of which were more closely guarded than some of the major museums Peter had been to. The minute the guards at the door saw him coming they nodded and stepped aside, which obviously struck a nerve for poor Olivia, who'd been standing there trying to talk her way in for a few minutes already.

Peter made sure she saw him smirk as he made his way in first.

Of course, his father was waiting for them.

"Peter!" His father welcomed with a big, warm paparazzi smile. "How good of you to come."

"Like I had a choice." Peter muttered, glancing around at the decor-du-jour. There were a couple famous paintings on the wall, some kind of expensive looking Persian rug, and a desk made of Mahogany. Granted, the desk was familiar - it was the same desk Walter had used ever since he'd been elected to Secretary of Defense - but all the rest of it was new.

Walter stood up and walked around his desk, striding towards Peter with arms outstretched, as if to embrace him. Peter took an automatic step back to avoid it and was immediately aware of every pair of eyes in the room locking turning toward him. The patronizing disapproval was almost tangible.

To his credit, Walter handled it well. With just a brief falter in his smile, he turned his palms up, pretending it was merely a showing-off-the-room kind of gesture, and then stretched out with just his right hand. Peter looked at the hand for a second, conscious of the focus of their audience, then reached over and shook it.

His father had always been good at playing to the crowd.

"What do you want, Walter?" Peter asked stoically. Again, he was aware of everyone turning to stare at him. Some of them in shock - mainly Olivia and a few of the newer guards - and all the others in resignation. Walter's smile grew; he was either oblivious to his son's tension or else faking it very well. Sadly, Peter was relatively sure it was the former, seeing as Walter had never really paid much attention to Peter's comfort.

"I take it you've met Ms. Dunham?" To anyone else, it would seem like his father was dodging the question (or maybe just delaying the inevitable), but Peter heard the underlying message. This had something to do with Olivia. And even though a very large part of him wanted to walk away - to ignore this, to get out before this old, _exhausting_ story could start up again and fuck with his head some more - a smaller, older, and stronger voice wanted too desperately to get answers.

He took a deep breath and reminded himself that he was an _adult_, god damn it, and just because he had the chance at answers _did not mean_ he was back to being that love struck kid, going out to meet his girlfriend with no idea that she wasn't going to show. He wasn't going to get involved again - these answers would be _closure_ to a tale far too long in the telling. He wasn't opening old wounds, or scratching at scars, he just _needed to know the truth._

And if that bigger part wondered if he was lying to himself, well... he could ignore it.

"Yes, I did." He said, just a hint of anger in his voice. "You wanna explain that one to me, _dad_?"

Again, the message was different for the audience than it was for Walter. For the audience, it was a spoiled rich boy pissed at his Daddy for forcing him to come home. Nothing new there; that was what Peter had always looked like to the public when they saw him with his father.

For Walter, though, it was an acknowledgement and a warning.

_Yeah – I noticed the bait you so obviously dangled. And __I came to get explanations. If you don't tell me what I came to find out, then I _will _get them elsewhere, and if that means smearing your good name, or blackmailing your employees, or straight up _stealing _it from you, I won't hesitate_.

It was, sadly, not an unfamiliar threat between them, and it was serious as hell on both sides.

Walter looked at Peter for a moment before glancing at his guards and Olivia. "Will you leave us for a moment?"

The guards looked doubtful - Peter wasn't sure if he should be amused or offended by that - but Olivia just hid disappointment. Still, they all shuffled out, closing the door behind them.

After a moment in which they listened to the retreating footsteps, Walter gestured Peter over.

"The resemblance is remarkable, isn't it?" Walter smiled.

Peter frowned. "Resemblance? So that's not Olive?"

"No, Peter." Walter clarified, with the benevolent expression he used pretty much everyone who could vote. Peter had believed in that look, too, once upon a time, when he was little enough to ignore his father's many flaws. Then he'd grown up, ran into a few of Walter's closeted skeletons and started to wonder why the hell no one else could see the truth. "She's not."

Peter stared at Walter, looking for a twitch, for an out-of-place glance, for... well, any kind of tell that he was lying. He didn't find any, and the little hairs on the back of his neck started to prickle. Walter had to be lying. He _had _to be.

"Bullshit." He finally said, still keeping his eyes locked on Walter's face.

"I assure you, I'm being completely honest with you." Walter placated.

"She doesn't just _resemble_ the Olivia I knew," Peter argued, trying not to think too hard on why Walter's response had pissed him off. He told himself that he just wanted answers - and this crap about Olivia not being Olivia was just Walter's way of _not _giving him those answers.

If some part of him felt disappointed at being so close, only to lose sight of her again… Well, he could ignore that, too.

"She _is_ Olivia. She's got the same eyes, the same face, the same _voice_ - if she's not Olivia then she'd have to be a fucking clone. Are you telling me that woman's not actually the real Olivia Dunham?"

Walter stared at Peter for a moment, looking just a little surprised and unnerved. It was probably because he'd always been so certain that what Peter and Olivia had had wasn't real; they were just kids, they didn't _know _what real love was. He probably thought Peter would've forgotten all about it by now – just a childhood infatuation, of course he'd grow out of it.

_Like he ever knew a damn thing about being in love. _

But then that political smile spread back over his face, wiping away all honest expression.

"No - that _was_ Olivia Dunham."

"So..." Peter paused, unreasoning anger melting into genuine frustration. "Are you saying that the Olive _I _knew wasn't Olivia Dunham? Because frankly - "

"No. Your 'Olive' was indeed Olivia Dunham. And the Olivia in that other room is also Olivia Dunham." Walter's smile began to morph into something more honest; darker, triumphant, obsessive. More genuinely Walter all around, actually. "But they are not the _same_ Olivia Dunham."

Peter stared, mentally back tracking over the conversation to try and remember if Walter had said anything earlier that would help this last sentence make even a little bit of sense. He couldn't think of anything. He frowned and closed his eyes, waving an open palm out before him as if to ward off any further confusion. "Okay... so, what? You saying everybody's got a twin out there, Walter?"

Walter grinned gleefully, making nervous goose bumps form on Peter's arms. "In a matter of speaking... that's exactly what I'm saying."

Peter blinked and tried to hide the rising disappointment.

Walter was playing with him.

_If this was all a waste of time, I swear I'm lighting something on fire on my way out._

"Peter... I have not always been completely honest with you, especially after Olivia disappeared." Peter wondered for a moment how badly saying, '_Well, duh' _would go over with his father, but in the end, he decided not to risk it. Instead, he took a few steps forward and sat down in the thick velvet chair in front of the desk and stared up at Walter.

Walter sat down behind the desk and stared right back.

"You see, Peter... I was a different man back then." Walter looked down at his hands. Peter wondered briefly if that was actually a gesture of shame. "This was... before the vortex, before Harvard was ambered, before... well, before all of it really. I had, until that point, completed every new scientific venture I placed before myself with gusto. Never had I faced an unsolvable conundrum, or an answer that was better left unknown. So when dear Olivia appeared out of thin air, talking about a world that didn't exist... I was _inspired_."

Peter hid his confusion. He'd only ever actually seen Olivia 'disappear' once, and his father had told him it must have been a trick of the light. And as for Olive's stories... well, Peter figured they were a way of distancing herself from the terror that was her home life. He couldn't image what Walter had seen in those things that he might have found "inspiring".

An image of Olive – blonde and tiny and terrified – flashed through his mind. Peter had never wanted to hurt somebody the way he'd wanted to hurt her step-father the night he'd figured out what the man was doing to his daughter. And he would have, too – not physically, but legally, except that he hadn't had the faintest idea how to find him. Olivia hadn't ever told him his name, and the only 'Olivia Dunham' of the right age registered in the database had lived three states away.

It made a certain, crazy kind of sense that she'd lied about her name. Peter figured she'd made it up to go with that "other-world" she was always talking about; just another part of the fantasy she'd created to escape her real life. He'd never held that against her; he'd seen too many hidden bruises and too much fear in her eyes to be angry. And after he'd fallen for her, he'd even come to think of it as vaguely endearing.

"She only actually spoke with me_ once_, if you remember. She wasn't particularly comfortable around me for some reason, but she knew I was your father, and so she told me honestly what it was she was running from. She even told me about how she still remembered me, her old teacher from years before."

Peter's eyebrows jerked up. What? She'd never said anything like that to him. She'd known his father?

"Only... Peter, I'd never met Olivia until that point. The school she told me I taught at... there was never such a school."

Peter blinked. Okay. So... what, it was just another one of Olive's stories? That was kind of weird, considering she'd never included anybody he knew in them before, but whatever. Not really all that far from her usual modus operandi.

He wanted Walter to get to the point, but he knew his father would never appreciate the interruption, so he kept his mouth shut and waited.

"Yet, some of the things she told me about... those were tales no normal child could have invented. She knew things that she could not have known, and everything she said made me remember a theory I'd come up with in college - a theory I'd tossed aside as I'd grown older, because I simply had too many more interesting things to study. But I remembered that theory then, and I set about to testing its validity.

"Unfortunately, when the incidents began, these tests fell to the wayside. It was years before I had enough resources to revisit it, but when I did it was only a few short months before - " Walter stopped, briefly struggling with himself. But then he smiled, looking once again every inch the politician. Peter hated the change. "Well, I think perhaps it would be better simply to show you."

Walter got up and walked towards an open door at the back of the room. He paused briefly and gestured back at Peter to follow.

Peter hesitated. Walter had never allowed him into these other rooms before, and Peter wasn't particularly sure he wanted to go in now. After all, who knew what creepy experiments his father had performed back there? When his father had first been elected, he'd imagined that that was the room that he built the Shifters in - a room filled with bodies, dead and alive, lost in Walter's ambition.

But Peter wasn't that kid anymore.

He sighed and stood up to follow his father.

They took a flight of white stairs directly up for a moment before they came to another door - this one a thick, locked metal door. Walter unlocked it quickly and the two of them stepped into an almost empty room. Peter blinked reflexively, trying to get his eyes to adjust, and listened to a faint whir that he imagined must have come from the high-tech generator he could see in the corner. He turned back to watch his father stride across the tiled flooring and over to what looked like... well, like a picture frame perched on a tripod, just in front of the only window in the room.

"This may very well be one of my greatest inventions." Walter said softly, running one gentle hand along the frame. Peter looked around, wondering how he'd spent so many years intrigued with a virtually empty room. Peter shook his head, feeling even more confused. "I call this a Window."

"A - ... " Peter felt his jaw unhinge. Really? A window?

"Um... Walter? The window has actually been invented already." Walter looked first confused and then, a moment later, incredibly peeved. Peter held back a grin.

"Not _that_ kind of window, Peter!" Walter snapped and pushed a little black switch at the bottom of the frame. Light stitched across the frame, accompanied by the faint buzz of electricity, and in less than a second it settled, the blue-white energy fading and leaving behind... pretty much just a picture of the window behind it.

Except... well. Except something had_ changed_.

Peter stepped forward to look out through the Window and tried to figure out what it was that was... off. At first, he didn't notice anything, but then he saw that a few of the buildings seemed... shorter, almost, and the blimps he'd seen in the skyline had all, apparently, been edited out. Peter blinked and leaned to the side of the Window, trying to convince himself that he'd just remembered incorrectly, or that things had changed when he wasn't looking, but the city was as he'd remembered when he looked outside the frame. But inside...

People were walking around in clothes he hadn't seen since his childhood, in fashions long gone out of style. The cars, the motorcycles, the haircuts and billboards – they were all just a couple decades out of date. Other than the skyline, there wasn't really anything drastic. Just a few things missing, a few things out of place…

"This is supposed to be another world?"

Walter hmmed. A thought came to mind that made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. He didn't really know why the idea had unnerved him so much, but before he'd had time to puzzle it out he found himself blurting out a question.

"Why are you telling me?"

Without looking at him, Walter smiled.

"Because, my dear boy." He finally said, and turned that smile on his son. It was a real smile – the toothy, greedy grin Peter remembered him wearing every time he started a project that intrigued him.

And now he was turning that smile on Peter.

"You're going to help me destroy it."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: <strong>Review.


	3. Deal with the Devil

**Disclaimer: **I do not, have not, and will never own the Fringe series.

**AN: **Stuck on my other story, so I decided to update. I've been rewatching the first season, and it occurs to me that I seriously under-did Olivia's reaction to John's defection. She angsts pretty hard about it in the show, so I figured I'd give that a little screen time. Hope you enjoy.

Next chapter should be out a lot faster than this one, btw.

**Summary**: When the Observer distracted Walternate from the cure, he changed the world. How would the story have gone if he hadn't?

* * *

><p>"One hundred and fifty grams of sucrose… maintain at seventy degrees Fahrenheit… for one hundred twenty hours…"<p>

"Walter." Olivia groaned, reluctantly pulling her head free from where she'd burrowed it firmly under her pillow. This was ridiculous. She hadn't slept in _days_ – and neither had Walter. Singing '_row, row, row your boat_' through the wall had helped at first, but he only ever slept a couple hours at a time. Then he'd wake up, get bored, and start all over again. It wouldn't have been so bad if the walls in this place weren't thinner than paper... "You're talking out loud again."

"Oh. I'm sorry, I…" Walter paused, his already hesitant voice trailing off into silence. "I hadn't realized…"

She waited a long moment to see if he'd start up again. When he didn't, she took a deep breath and tried to go back to sleep.

"Do you happen to have any root beer?" Olivia clenched her fist beneath the pillow and sighed. "I _love _root beer. Root beer floats, especially. Did you know –?"

"No." Olivia snapped. Then, feeling guilty for the sudden silence, she made a conscious effort to soften her tone. "No, Walter, I don't have any root beer."

"Oh…"

It went quiet again, and Olivia was almost asleep before the muttering started up again. "Add two quarts pure H20… Let cool to seventy-five degrees…"

Olivia groaned in resignation. Even if Walter stopped now, or she managed to sing him back to sleep, she'd never relax enough to do anything more than doze. She pushed herself up from the bed and sat down on the floor to start her workout.

But even as she began to feel the heat flaring in her muscles, Olivia's mind was elsewhere. The past few weeks had been… strange, to say the least. First John, and his betrayal. Then the return of the Brain Surgeon – a serial killer Olivia had investigated with John years before, only now she had to rethink every moment of the investigation to figure out what she might've missed. What might've been _hidden_ from her...

Was John a traitor even then?

Olivia flipped over on her stomach and started doing push-ups.

After the Brain Surgeon – who'd died on a street corner while Olivia had been busy guarding (and then shooting) Penrose – there was the case with the DEA agent and that amber stuff on the bus, and then the vibrating capsule and the Observer. Just the day before, she'd killed a man named Justin Megar – a man who could electrocute people with his mind.

With two shootings in as many months, she was starting to get a reputation.

She didn't want to admit it, but Charlie had been right when he'd said she was having trouble keeping up. Between running down leads, facing off against surreal psychopaths, helping Walter with his bizarre experiments, and playing babysitter to a man old enough to be her father, there was barely any time left over to sleep – let alone to go over old case files looking for loose ends.

And yet, there was stack of manila folders on her nightstand for that very purpose. Half the cases she'd investigated with John were there, and most of the folders were practically falling apart by now because she'd handled them so much. It wasn't rational. It wasn't healthy. But to Olivia, each one was a physical reminder of yet another new insecurity she had to face. Had to _fix_.

_How could I not have known? What am I missing even now? _

_Have I always been such a horrible judge of character?_

_Why did I ever trust him?_

_Is there something wrong with me?_

_Did he ever really care about me at all? Or was that ring just another ploy? Another cover?_

Using the control she'd spent years developing, Olivia shoved those thoughts aside. Now that she was thoroughly awake, Olivia moved on to simple stretches. Palms curled around the sole of her foot, Olivia held on to what Walter had told her. She wasn't crazy.

As if in denial, the sharp _ping _of a new email rang through her room, instantly constricting every muscle in her body. Eyes wide and heart pounding, she turned her eyes toward the open laptop on the dresser. She didn't even half to look to know who'd sent it.

* * *

><p><strong>~*On the Other Side*~<strong>

Despite all of his… eccentricities, Walter only rarely genuinely surprised Peter. He knew his father far too well to be sideswiped by an unusually cruel decision or an unfathomable mental leap. Walter was a genius, but he was also one of the biggest asshole's Peter had ever known, and Peter had long ago learned to set his expectations accordingly.

"I'm going to _what?_"

His father smiled knowingly, still staring out the window at the city.

"Walter," he started, turning away from his infuriating father. "Even if I believed you about this whole other planet thing – "

"Another _dimension_, Peter, not _planet_. You're an uncommonly intelligent young man, you should know – "

Peter grit his teeth and cut Walter off. _Uncommonly_? Peter had a _genius_ level IQ, but of course Walter wouldn't pay attention to little details like that. Peter still didn't test as well as Walter, which meant he'd never be more than 'uncommonly intelligent' to the man. "Even if I _did_, there's no way in hell I would help you _destroy it_."

Walter looked down at the floor as his expression shifted. Each of those deceptive hang dog wrinkles seemed to stretch and deepen, turning an already serious face into something solemn. Peter lifted an eyebrow; he'd seen him like this before, but not often. It was Walter's 'hard-decisions' look, and it was one of the few genuine expressions he ever wore when he stood behind a podium.

"Son…" Walter's eyes slid upward until they met Peter's. A prickle of uncertainty started somewhere in his spine and scurried up his neck, and for one brief moment, Peter had the strangest impulse to make a quick getaway. "Do you remember when the Incidents began?"

Peter frowned at the clumsy segue. Walter had more political savvy than that, which meant that it had to have some kind of relevance. But what did any of that have to do...

An idea – a simple theory born from his old suspicions about the Incidents – bloomed in his head, bringing with it a sense of eerie foreboding. He pushed it aside for the moment in order to better pay attention to the conversation.

"Yes."

"Do you remember how many people we lost?"

Peter's fist clenched.

Hypersensitive to his father's manipulative tactics, Peter was more than aware that the man was trying to mess with Peter's emotions in order to keep him from thinking in any direction Walter wasn't leading him to. This wasn't the first time Walter had used this strategy, and so Peter used his old distraction to keep calm: analyzing Walter's technique.

He'd used "we", a unifying pronoun, and to compound that unity he'd used the phrase "we _lost_". Walter could have said "how many people _were lost_" or "how many people _died_." But he hadn't. He'd used language specifically meant to tie Peter to himself (and in fact, to everybody in their universe), and put them into the role of the victim.

As if Walter gave a rat's ass what Peter had _lost_.

"Get to the point." Peter hissed, feeling genuinely angry for the first time since he'd entered the office and hating himself for letting Walter get to him. For a moment he considered leaving – just turning and walking out of the office, to hell with the Secretary and his games. But Peter didn't really understand what was going on yet, and he hated to leave a puzzle unsolved...

Nonetheless, Peter found himself walking backwards until his back pressed against the wall by the door. He kept a steely gaze on his father, knowing the man would pick up on the implications.

Walter blinked owlishly and turned away, looking almost hurt.

After clearing his throat, the Secretary dug in. "Twelve years ago, someone from the other side crossed over – came into _our _dimension. To what purpose, we have yet to determine, but what we do know is that this… _intrusion_ caused an imbalance. And as always happens with imbalances in nature, the universe has been trying to even the scales ever since."

Peter instinctively glanced back out the Window. Something else was missing from that image – something he hadn't noticed before because he hadn't been looking for it. In the actual window, he could see a tiny sliver of color between the buildings that was absent in the other world.

_Amber._..

"How is it going to do that?"

"Two of the same worlds cannot exist so closely to one another without consequence. They're _colliding_, Peter, and soon our two worlds will be so close to one another that one will have to be destroyed to make room."

"Ours." Peter concluded quietly. It made sense, in a very late-night sci-fi movie kind of way. All the Incidents… the vortex in the river, Harvard, the breaches; they were rifts where the fabric of their dimension had begun to pull apart. Reality ripping at the seams.

In fact, it made sense in a way none of the official explanations had.

_Walter could be right. _

Peter kept his eyes on the other skyline, mind buzzing over the scenario.

He'd always prided himself at his ability to look straight at even the most painful of facts, and to deal with them as best he could. So even though the very idea that an entire world and all its population could very well be destroyed (assuming his father was telling the truth), he didn't have any problem accepting it as something he'd have to face.

But he also wasn't the kind of man that heard a bad prognosis and ran with it. Walter was undoubtedly spoon feeding him a biased – although not inaccurate – view of these events in order to try and insure his support. Which meant that, before Peter decided on _anything_, he'd have to make sure for himself that he had all the answers.

After all, it was possible destroying this other world could save their world, but it was also possible that the damage done here was already too extensive. Their world might already be doomed, and Walter could be hanging on to a stubborn pipe-dream, refusing to let go of what he wanted to believe. It was also possible, although not likely, that there was a way to stop this collision and save _both _worlds.

Peter just didn't know.

Walter had probably expected that line to gain Peter's sympathy. Peter had always been a strong believer in the 'it was him or me' defense, and had he actually bought Walter's insinuation that the entire second dimension was to blame for one man's mysterious invasion twelve years ago, he actually might have agreed with Walter. If one world was going to die, it wasn't in Peter's nature to volunteer his own.

But Walter had never understood how much Olive had meant to him.

Things had obviously changed over the years, and now Peter's feelings on the subject were impossible to untangle. Yet the memory of that timid little smile still remained, and now Peter knew why he'd never been able to find her. She'd been over there all these years, living in a universe that may very well be threatening the existence of his entire planet.

And that didn't change a god damn _thing_.

Because Peter _was not_ willing to sacrifice her life on nothing but _Walter's word_.

"What can I do to help?" Peter chirped.

He needed this job, this position, no matter the outcome. If his father was right and there really was no other way, then he needed to help him do it with as few casualties as possible. But if his father was wrong, or overeager, or ignoring other options… than Peter needed to be in a position of trust to have the freedom he needed to subvert his father's plans.

Walter's silence began to feel like disbelief, and so Peter shrugged one shoulder and took a step from the wall to the Window. "I'm bored, Walter. Conning stupid people out of their money is… lucrative, but not very challenging. How could I pass up a chance to help save the world?"

It was all lies, obviously. Peter would never be so callous as to play with people's safety to assuage his boredom. And he loved his job; even though most of his targets had nowhere near his IQ, they did often have guns and a lot of loyal killers on their payroll – he never lacked for a challenge, should he want one. But Walter had always assumed that Peter's career-choice had indicated a lack of compassion; any _decent man _with Peter's IQ would've obviously gone into civil service, as Walter had. And when Peter had tried to explain the thrill of his job to Walter before, the man had dismissed it as self-delusion; in Walter's mind, the only real power in the world was knowledge, and no one lacking that could truly be a threat.

Peter played on that ignorance, and watched the suspicion melt away.

Oh, there was still a little doubt lingering on Walter's face, but Peter had expected that. It would take time for Peter to gain his trust. But fortunately, he had years of his father's thoughtless comments to build a cover from.

Peter looked back out the Window, absently scanning the streets for golden hair.

_What the hell am I doing?_

* * *

><p><strong>~*On This Side*~<strong>

Olivia Dunham's birthday came and went with little fanfare. The gruesome case she was working at the time kept her from meeting her sister for their annual celebratory dinner, but when Olivia apologized over the phone Rachel simply laughed. _No big deal_, she'd said. _You'll just have to bring me someplace twice as fancy for my birthday, won't you?_

The next day, upon finding out Olivia's birthday had come and gone, Walter grew quite upset that no one had told him. Later, feeling clever, he made a miniature german chocolate cake on the Bunsen burner. When he confronted Olivia with the cake (topped with a single pink candle, curtsey of Astrid), she smiled at him. It was an open, genuine smile – the first Walter had ever gotten from her – and the old man spent the rest of the day quite proud of himself for the achievement.

But asleep in bed that night, Olivia's mind went back to a time she couldn't quite remember, and a faceless man that made her scream...

* * *

><p><strong>AN: <strong>Review.


	4. Trying to Relate

**Disclaimer: **I do not, have not, and will never own the Fringe series.

**OLD AN: **_Oh man. The more Fringe I rewatch, the more potential twists I've found that the producers never used (or haven't yet, I guess). So I've been trying to find ways to weave that into the story, as well as whatever it is they're doing this season. Which, btw, I love. Anyway, point is that depending on what I find, it may be a while for the next update._

**NEW AN: **Okay, so I had most of this chapter written almost a year ago, when I last updated, but I got hit by this major writers block and could only really stand to focus on the one story I'd promised to finish. I kind of forgot about this one, and for the most part this season on Fringe has been annoying me (although I'm behind a few episodes, so maybe it gets better), which hasn't exactly increased my motivation. Still, though, now that that first story is finished and I'm on its sequel, I'm going to try and get into this story again. Dunno how well it'll work, but I will put in an effort.

Oh! Also, if anyone is really interested in writing this themselves, send me a message and I'll check you out. Not guaranteeing I'll actually give the whole story to you, but I could definitely see signing off on getting some help and cowriting it or giving the thumbs up on you guys taking what I have and writing your own version or something.

Enjoy. (:

**Summary**: When the Observer distracted Walternate from the cure, he changed the world. How would the story have gone if he hadn't?

* * *

><p>Olivia had met Lucas in college, when they'd both been doing a semester at the University of Munich. They'd taken a Cognitive Psychology class together, and as the only American students there, they'd bonded.<p>

Things had progressed pretty quickly, for Olivia, and she'd been both awed and completely terrified by how good he was at making her feel comfortable. He'd never gotten past her walls, of course, but for a while he'd almost made her forget they were there. With Lucas… Olivia had gotten the chance to be someone else. Someone happy.

But Lucas had plans, and Olivia wasn't part of them; he'd told her as much at the end of the semester. Olivia had smiled and said she felt the same, because really, what else was there to say? She had plans, too. Plans she wasn't ready to give up, no matter how nice it was to escape her past for a while.

After all this time, she could look back and honestly say she didn't regret a minute of it. Before she met Lucas, she'd been a defensive, vaguely neurotic control freak. And while she was still all of those things, it was because of Lucas that she was now able to let her hair down every once in a while. Which she hadn't been able to do in… well, longer than she could remember.

Which is why, despite all the pain John had caused her, despite her imminent meeting with David Robert Jones, despite _everything_… when Lucas invited her to stay the night, she'd wanted more than anything to say yes. But instead, she said '_I can't_', and prepared herself to walk away.

Astor's timing couldn't have been better.

Olivia had nothing to do until the next morning, so she took Lucas up on his offer to make dinner. As promised, he was a spectacular cook. His subtlety could've used a little work, though; Ray LaMontagne's "_Let it be Me_" was playing quietly in the background.

Wine slick on her tongue, Olivia grinned into the glass.

"So. Who was he?"

Olivia blinked, trying to remember if that question tied into their conversation somehow.

"Whoever it was who broke your heart." He clarified, his soft voice slipping under her defenses like it always had before. Olivia's smile slipped.

"He was my partner." Olivia muttered, holding eye contact to fight back nerves. She hadn't talked to anybody about Scott yet, and she wasn't certain why she suddenly wanted to now. Maybe it was that gentle, no-pressure attitude of his. Maybe she felt guilty about how little of her actual self she'd let him see when they'd been together. Maybe she was just… finally ready.

But the reasons really didn't matter; that had always been the magic of Lucas.

Olivia smiled and glanced briefly to the side. "You of all people should know how inept I am at this, but he was straightforward. Decisive. Charming. And it was wonderful. Except it was a lie, and he betrayed me, betrayed the FBI… then he died. And that's the end."

Or, at least, that's what she wanted it to be. She wanted everything between her and John to have ended on that highway – to have just disappeared when the light went out of John's gorgeous blue eyes. But then she'd seen his ghost…

"That's the end for _him_." Lucas gently retorted, and Olivia looked him in the eye, wanting so badly to believe him. He glanced down, bitter regret pulling at the corners of his mouth. "I've known this for years. I screwed up. With you."

Olivia smiled and shook her head. "The timing wasn't right for either of us."

"Yes it was." Lucas looked her in the eye again, and Olivia's smile faded when she caught sight of the sincerity buried there. He looked away, embarrassed. "But I was scared. And that's the gods' honest truth."

Without realizing it was happening, Olivia let John Scott start to slip into the background – a conversation for another night, with different company. Because here… here was the man she would've loved, had she been a different version of herself. Had she been someone without scars, without nightmares… someone _normal_.

And god, she wanted to be normal again. If only for a little while…

"I think of you… so often." He smiled wistfully, eyes locked on his hands. Lucas looked oddly shy with his face tilted to hide his expression. When he finally forced himself to look up and meet her gaze, he was frowning. "And I don't call, because… because I'm ashamed of how I treated you."

"No, it was just –" Olivia leaned forward, reaching for a way to end that sentence. Bad timing? A casual thing? What two kids do when they're in another country, trying to define themselves? All of that was true, of course, but she found she didn't really want to say it. She didn't want to be rational and push him away. She wanted to spend at least one night _not _thinking about… about...

Her eyes drifted down towards his mouth, and Olivia felt her breath catch in her throat. He cared about her. He genuinely cared about her. And after everything with John… it just felt _so good _to have someone look at her like she mattered. Like she wasn't alone.

Lucas reached one hand up to her cheek, and the soft calluses of his fingertips brought goose bumps to her arms. The warmth of his palm melted into her chin, sweet at chocolate, and the hesitant expression on his face made her heart squeeze.

Olivia leaned into the touch. When she didn't push him away, Lucas leaned forward, fingers tangled in her hair, pulling her into a soft kiss…

She remembered that look, then – that serious expression he'd worn when he said how often he thought about her. Guilt blossomed in her stomach like nausea, and Olivia reluctantly pushed Lucas back. This wasn't fair.

She hadn't thought of _Lucas_ in years.

"Lucas, I…" She tried to think up some excuse, some gentler reason why she couldn't let him get too attached to her. But when she met his eyes, she already saw it there – the hurt, the regret, the acceptance. He knew.

Olivia grabbed the back of his neck and pulled him forward, pressing her lips against his with everything she was worth. He grabbed her waist, then her neck, and then he started to tug her jacket down her arms, trapping her hands behind her back. He kept trying to get it loose, but the bunched up fabric refused to budge. In the meantime, every desperate motion brought a touch – skin brushing fabric brushing skin. Heat and sweat and breath collected around them, shortening the space between.

Every nerve was catching fire. The skin along her neck felt every glancing touch like a kiss, sending tingles of electricity down her spine. The warmth, the shape, the smell of him all magnified in her senses, and for a second, he was the only other person in the world.

The piercing ring of Olivia's cell phone broke the trance.

Suddenly hyperaware of how little she knew this man – she'd talked to him maybe four times since college – Olivia found herself sending silent thanks to whoever might be listening. She smiled down at Lucas. "I'm sorry. I have to get this."

"I hate…" Lucas swallowed. Obviously having a difficult time breathing. "… whoever that is."

Olivia grinned and answered the phone, Astor's familiar voice helping to ground her even further in the present. But even as she made plans with Astor for how to handle Mr. Jones, she was already preparing herself for making a graceful exit. Because as handsome and sweet and good-natured as Lucas was, to Olivia, he was still just an escape.

And she was too old to be running, anymore.

* * *

><p><strong>~*On the Other Side*~<strong>

Peter had spent the day before filling out a small mountain of paperwork. Part of him wondered if it was the average bureaucratic crap, but a different part insisted it was some petty revenge of his father's. Still, by the time he was done with it all, he had one of the highest security clearances possible in the Fringe division, which was really saying something.

He also had one of the lowest ranking job titles.

Peter was now an official 'consultant' to the Fringe division – although what subject he was supposed to consult them on and why they even _needed_ consulting had been a little vague. Peter figured it was probably a position his father had pulled out of his ass in order to give Peter legal access without actually making him go through the official training.

Which was… unusually considerate of Walter, really. In the past, he would've been more likely to make Peter _work _for a position of power (or anything else, really). He was convinced that Peter would get weak and stupid if he didn't challenge him.

And since Walter never did anything truly generous, Peter had to assume it was a result of time constraints. Training for Fringe operatives was done in a facility in Washington, and not only could it be incredibly brutal, but it also took years to complete. Adding that on to the time it would take Peter to actually get the promotion after promotion he'd need to _earn_ that security pass... well, whatever Walter wanted Peter to do would likely be waiting a while.

Still, that didn't mean Walter was going to make _everything _easy for Peter. Problem number one went by the name of Dunham, and she was going to be his official watch dog for the next few months. Even worse, Dunham could not – apparently – do anything alone, and her two other halves (or thirds) Agents Lincoln and Charlie seemed to keep just as close an eye on him as she did. Closer, even, considering Lincoln had a sadly obvious crush on the red-head that he was more than a little insecure about.

And if the awkward third-wheel thing (ironically, he was technically a fourth-wheel) wasn't ridiculous enough, his new boss Broyles already seemed to disapprove of Peter's presence in his department. He hadn't been in the room when Broyles and Walter had discussed his placement, but the walls of that room were made purely of glass, and for a man that'd learned to lip-read in a fit of pre-teen paranoia, that didn't provide much of an obstacle.

Broyles thought he was a 'dangerously unpredictable element', and he resented the fact that he 'had to put up with' Peter being on his team. Peter could quote a few of Walter's more impressively political responses, but the layman's paraphrase was basically: I'm smarter than you, and I have my reasons. Which, now that Peter thought about it, was almost always what Walter really meant when he condescended to talk to members of the general public.

Not that it really mattered all that much what Broyles thought of him. Broyles didn't have the authority to do anything to him, anyway, so all Peter really had to do was put up with the pissing contests long enough for Walter to believe Peter was sincere in his offer to help. Not that he was, really, but judging by the papers he'd signed forbidding him from sharing information about the 'other world' with his new coworkers, it didn't look like anybody in the Fringe Division (apart from maybe Broyles) had any idea what was really going on here. And if they weren't going to be working on anything alternate-world related, obviously neither would Peter. In which case, what other possible reason could Walter have for giving him this position but to test him?

Peter turned away from Broyles' office just as Walter stood to go, and met the hostile stares of his new coworkers. He sighed. _This'll be fun._

"So," Peter said after several seconds passed in silence, not even bothering to fake enthusiasm. "What is it you guys do, exactly?"

It was a stupid question, really, but it was also a genuine one. After the Incidents began, the Fringe Division – and it's counterparts around the world – had become the most powerful branches of government virtually _overnight_. Because they dealt with the Breaches, the people had been willing to ignore unimportant things like jurisdiction and limits to funding, so from what Peter could understand they had the right to do... pretty much anything they liked. And they didn't exactly have to inform the general public what that was, either.

Of course, after they'd started Ambering everything, that support had taken a huge hit, but they were still the most powerful agency in the world. By a _very_ large margin.

Dunham rolled her eyes and smirked at Lincoln, as if sharing some mutual pity for the poor, ignorant little outsider. Lincoln smiled back, but the expression on him looked less biting and more love-struck. Quite against his will, Peter felt a surge of sympathy for the guy.

"We seal Breaches," Charlie replied flatly, but only when it was obvious no one else would be talking. The words were clipped, but the half-smile the older Agent tossed his way helped to soften it. Of his three watchdogs, Charlie seemed the quietest and the most level headed. More importantly, he didn't seem to be quite so blindly enraptured with Olivia as Lincoln – and for that alone Peter decided Charlie was his favorite. "And the occasional side case from the Bureau."

"What kind of side cases?" Peter asked. He knew about the Breaches, obviously – there wasn't a person on the face of the planet who _didn't _– but as far as he'd been able to tell, the cases the Fringe Division took on were completely random.

Charlie shrugged. "Anything the Secretary throws at us, really. We have some of the best lab equipment in the world here, so we end up with a lot of weird stuff."

"Ah." Peter said after an uncomfortably long pause. His gaze turned inward as he followed that thought to its dismal conclusion and muttered with a bitter little smile. "Right. The Secretary."

Of course it all came down to Walter. And if Peter had maybe, possibly been harboring a little hope that his father was just the face of the most powerful Division on the planet, rather than the man standing behind the big red button, it had obviously been wishful thinking. Walter wasn't the type to settle for anything less than total control.

"Watch it, Charlie." Dunham wise-cracked, tossing a biting smile Peter's way. Someone obviously hadn't forgiven him, yet. "Bishop here has Daddy issues."

Peter felt his expression shut down. The patronizing tone of her voice made him want to strike back, to use what little he knew of Olive and what he'd picked up from Dunham herself to make some cutting remark about her past. But if this was a test, then Peter couldn't afford to seriously alienate Dunham and her little side-kicks. No matter how much he'd enjoy knocking her off her high horse.

Charlie glanced between Dunham and Peter, face unreadable, and Lincoln smiled in that half-confused way people do when they think they're about to be let in on some inside joke. Dunham grinned at Peter. "Let me guess. Secretary too busy saving the world to go to your soccer game?"

"Yup." Peter forced out as casually as he could. Which was very casual, considering just how good of a con man he really was. A little of Dunham's aggression gave way to surprise. He grinned, all false cheer and cold control. "And he said I couldn't have a puppy. That _bastard_."

"Hey." This time it was Lincoln who spoke up. The smile had already disappeared, but his voice was only mildly reproving. "You mind? I don't know what kind of problems the two of you have, but you need to show some respect."

"My _father_ was busy screwing his secretary the day my mother died. And the only thing he had to say afterward was how it was a _regrettable_ event, but I wasn't to let it interfere with my studies." Peter said calmly, ignoring the way Charlie frowned in disapproval from the corner of his eye and the way Dunham's eyes widened, just a little. "That was just one of the worst in a long list of problems between me and my father. So you can have all the respect you want for the man, Agent Lincoln, but as someone that knows him a little bit better than you... I reserve the right to make my own opinions."

None of the three Agents said anything, and – kicking himself for letting his irritation make him a little _too _honest – he grabbed his jacket with careful grace and grinned. He was pretty good at faking cheer, but the tension he'd introduced into the room barely budged. "I'm going to go grab some lunch. I'll bring back some fries or something, alright?"

As soon as he was out of sight, Peter pulled his lucky coin from his pocket and absently began to flip it from finger to finger, thinking the whole thing over. He wasn't sure how good of an idea it had been to be that open to his coworkers when his father was probably going to watch the security recordings personally to determine if Peter could be trusted, but – although he wasn't a big fan of sharing – it was probably all for the better, from a strategy point of view. Dunham was doing her best to make him uncomfortable, and Peter had to respond honestly, or else his father would get suspicious.

Besides, the disillusioned look on her face was more than worth it.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: <strong>I'm not a shipper for the pairings in this chapter (I'm a hardcore Peter/Olivia fan), but I think it's a good way of establishing the kind of people I think they are. As in, Olivia's the kind of woman who's not at all afraid of intimacy, but who finds it almost impossible to become emotionally dependant on anybody, and Peter's usually avoids getting close to people unless he's sure of it, but when he lets himself get attached it's this pretty permanent, life changing sort of thing.

Also, sorry it's kinda short. ):

-Review!


	5. Thinking of You

**Disclaimer: **I do not, have not, and will never own the Fringe series.

**AN: **Totally disinterested in writing lately, but I forced myself to get another chapter out, so here it is. I'm skipping over a lot that I originally wanted to flesh out, but it's hard enough to write right now without being super detailed about it. Instead, I decided to just go for the big, important moments.

Also, what I said before still stands. If anyone is really interested in writing this themselves, send me a message and I'll check you out. Not guaranteeing I'll actually give it up, but it just depends what you guys want to do with it.

Enjoy.

**Summary**: When the Observer distracted Walternate from the cure, he changed the world. How would the story have gone if he hadn't?

* * *

><p>The bomb on the window was an exact replica of Jones's light bulb test.<p>

Olivia stared at it, breathing hard and heart pounding.

He was messing with her. He had to be. There was no way he could really expect her to do this – no way he could actually expect her to succeed. She couldn't do this! She wasn't a freaking super hero; it was ridiculous to think she could have any effect on this device. So either Jones' had gone to extreme lengths to assassinate her in the most bizarre, overcomplicated way he could come up with… or he was crazy, and he actually believed she was psychic.

_No_, she silently cried. _No, those can't be the only options_.

Olivia grit her teeth against a silent sob and clenched her fists, barely hearing Charlie and the other officers begging her to leave. She couldn't accept that those were the only possibilities, because if that was true – if those were the only possible choices… then a lot of people were going to die. They could follow procedure, get as many as they possibly could out of the blast zone. But it wouldn't be enough.

So there was a third option. There had to be a third option, and if that meant trusting a psychopath who thought she could move things with her mind…

_Shit._

She turned away and yelled, "Okay, we need to get these people out of here." Charlie watched with relief as his new partner finally turned toward the door, and thinking she was right behind him, he took off down the stairs to do everything he could for the people outside. Olivia watched him leave and turned back towards the window. She dropped her coat on the floor as she approached it, skin hot to the touch and pulse throbbing in her throat.

A strange sort of fear hit her then, and it wasn't about the virus that would be released in the explosion, or the shrapnel that would surely rip her to pieces if she failed. There was a part of her mind that fought against her decision to even try this – a part of her that was terrified beyond words of even pretending to believe.

Olivia pushed those thoughts aside and focused on the lights. She didn't let herself look at the timer, didn't let herself think about how she had just over a minute left to do this right. Instead, she let her eyes focus on the light, pushing away all thought but for the glow of them, and how she wanted that glow to _stop_.

The clock keeps ticking, but Olivia loses track of it. Everything began to slow, edges blurring and blending into each other as the shapes expand. Then, abruptly, everything sharpened. Olivia's head tilted just a little to the side, pupils widening as something inside her shifted. She could almost see the wires leading from bulb to bulb. Veins pumping light like blood.

Olivia fell even further into her own mind, her perception narrowing even further until those veins stood out like freeways. She focuses harder, holding only one thought in mind…

A light went out.

Her focus didn't ease – most of her mind was totally removed, focused only on the mission. Lights failed faster then, cascading one by one into the dark. Blood slowing to a stop – the death of a machine.

It's only after they'd all gone out that Olivia remembered where she was and what she was doing. She stared at the bomb, pulse suddenly pounding.

_Jones… Jones must have programmed them to do that_. She reasoned, but even in her mind it sounded hollow. She knew better.

And it scared the living shit out of her.

"Cool."

Olivia spun, reaching for the gun at her waist. The teenaged boy who'd stood behind her smiled, seemingly unconcerned with the idea of getting shot. Olivia looked behind him, half expecting Charlie to come running up the stairs, yelling at the kid for avoiding the evacuation. There was no one there.

"You're not supposed to be here."

The kid snorted, and shrugged. "Aw. Is that any way to greet an old friend?"

Olivia blinked, heart squeezing unnervingly. She looked the kid over, taking in the curly brown hair, brown eyes, and the irreverent grin on his face. He couldn't be more than sixteen or seventeen – old enough to have beat her in height, but young enough to still be sporting a little bit of baby-fat and the skinny frame of so many high-school boys.

She shook her head. "I don't know you."

He stepped closer – still grinning, still disturbingly calm. Olivia stepped back and then froze, beyond confused with the way she was responding to this boy. She felt like he was looking right through her, like he was seeing a side of herself she couldn't. It was a ridiculous feeling, and the strangeness of it was making her defensive.

"You know me." He argued softly, only a couple feet from her now. His eyes were a few inches above her own, gazing down at her with an expression she wasn't really sure she wanted to read. "You just don't _remember_ me. Two different things."

Olivia swallowed, stepping back against the glass. She kept her hand pressed against the holster of her gun, even though the boy in front of her didn't even seem to notice. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Not yet." He smiled. He lifted one hand towards her face and – ignoring her flinch – he gently swiped his index and middle finger across her temple. "But you will. The door is open now, Olive. You can't run forever."

Olivia bristled, opening her mouth to snap at him –

He vanished even as she watched, without a sound or flash of light or anything. He was just there one second and gone the next. Like a mirage or a…

Another hallucination.

Olivia pulled her trembling hand off the holster of her gun and sucked in a harsh gulp of air, fighting off the urge to scream.

* * *

><p><strong>~*On the Other Side *~<strong>

It was official.

Being a consultant to the Fringe Division was definitely the most mind numbingly boring job Peter had ever had. Which was surprising, considering it was the only job he'd ever had were an entire planet and the lives of everybody on that planet could literally be depending on him. Hell, it was the kind of job people dreamed about having; Peter himself had spent a few months of his childhood running around in spandex, insisting he could fly.

Granted, he'd been about three, but he'd still been excited about it.

Peter had a hard time believing Superman was ever told to 'wait by the car,' though.

Peter sighed and sipped at the cheap synthetic tea – he couldn't afford coffee anymore, now that his life as a con-artist was on a temporary hiatus. It was pretty disgusting to be honest, but it was the only thing with a high enough caffeine content to satisfy his addiction.

The cop closest to him brought his hand around his ear cuff and started speaking softly. Peter picked up the words "yes, sir" and "understood" before the guy hit the button and took a few steps toward the building.

"Everybody, step back!" He shouted, each of his men turning to face out towards the crowd. "This building has been Quarantined!"

Whispers turned to murmurs turned to raised and angry voices.

"What's going on?"

"Is it a Breach?"

"They're going to Amber us!"

"Tell us what's going on!"

The cop glanced at Peter, who took another sip and leaned back against the car, content just to listen. Hey, if he didn't get to do the fun part, he sure as hell had no intention of helping them with crowd control.

He reached up and hit the button on his ear-cuff, which was so far the only real perk of his job. The cuff was actually a company issued, encrypted radio that was connected via digital signal to a tiny speaker right next to his ear drum. The signal it received was too weak to be heard by anyone but the wearer, and the speaker in the cuff translated sound through vibrations in the jaw bone rather than sound translated though the air, which allowed for completely private conversations even in the middle of a crowd.

His ear buzzed with the voices of Dunham's team. Technically, as a non-member of Team A, he wasn't supposed to be hearing any of this, but it had taken Peter only a day of tinkering with the thing to figure out how to get passed that little limitation. Now if anybody using one of the Fringe frequencies within five hundred yards received a call, he would hear it – which could get a little confusing if more than one person was talking at a time, but it was worth it.

And yeah, there was a pretty big invasion-of-privacy aspect to it, considering these things could receive personal calls. But even if Peter had been the kind of law-abiding citizen who cared about things like that, this whole battle-of-the-world's situation was a bit more important than respecting people's need to keep their affair with the nanny a secret.

Plus, if it got too personal, he could always take the damn thing off.

"What the hell..." Charlie's voice in his ear sounded genuinely shell-shocked. The tone all by itself was enough to catch Peter's attention; Charlie was an extremely settled guy, and anything that got him out of level tones had to be important. "There's some kind of weird machine up here."

"Have you found the source of the disturbance?" Came the familiar voice of Dunham, something Peter was only just beginning to get used to.

"This machine is the source." Charlie responded immediately.

A long, ominous silence. Peter stood up straight, eyes scanning the building for any sign of where the Fringe operatives might be. There was a swish of curtains on the third floor, which he figured had to be them, since the building had been evacuated.

A few seconds later, Lincoln finally responded. "What is your position? Are you still with this… machine?"

The curtains swished again – another window, this time, closer to the fire escape.

"Affirmative." Charlie said quietly. "Third floor, South-East corner."

"We're on the fifth floor," Agent Lincoln intoned, voice a little breathless. "We're coming down to you, but it might take a few minutes."

"… Fifth floor?" Peter muttered, frowning. That didn't make any sense. The fire-escape was on the Western wall of the building, only half-visible from where he was standing, and the windows he'd spotted movement through were on the Northern. If the other agents were on the fifth floor and Charlie on the other side of the building…

Peter took a subconscious step closer. "The hell?"

"We have it under control." The officer shouted, sending one last annoyed glance Peter's way. Peter ignored him, eyes fixed on the Northwestern corner of the building. "Do not panic!"

"Wait a minute," Charlie ordered, voice stoic but harsh. It was the odd sharpness to his words that told Peter he'd noticed something, too. "We've got signs of occupation in here. I think… someone's still in the building."

Another brief moment of silence passed. "That's not possible. How did we miss that during the evacuation?"

Charlie snorted, breathing a little quickly. "Freak's been living in the walls."

Eyes still locked on the fire-escape, Peter saw a flash of black. He couldn't see much, but he could guess that had been about where the window was, and that the little shape had been somebodies knee.

Somebody who was evidently on the second floor, now.

Peter took off for the fire-escape, ignoring the calls of the cops and the crowd. Halfway there, the guy – almost six-foot, waxy brown hair, maybe thirty – hit the ground and spotted Peter. He swore and took off in the opposite direction.

"Hey!" Peter shouted, pissed that he hadn't started moving quicker. The suspect shoved a dumpster (evidently empty) in Peter's path, and without pause he put his hand on top and launched himself over it. He hadn't taken into account how light it was, and the whole thing almost carried him into a wall, but he shifted his weight and threw himself off the top before he hit. He landed badly, but kept on his feet – unsure now whether he actually could catch the guy himself, Peter reached up and hit the button on his ear-cuff.

"Calling all Fringe agents." He tried to chirp, but it came out more than a little breathless. He took the next corner quickly enough to gain a little on the guy and mentally patted himself on the back for it. "Somebody just snuck out of your evacuated building. I approached, he took off on foot. Chasing him down now."

A seconds pause, and then Dunham spoke up. "Bishop, fall back. The suspect could be armed –"

"If he had a gun, he would've drawn it by now." Peter scoffed. The guy hit the end of the alley and glanced both ways before going right. Peter picked up the pace, knowing the guy would be too busy looking for an escape path to go full speed; the perfect opportunity to close the gap.

"Damn it, Peter," Dunham growled. "Don't be stupid! You aren't trained to handle this kind of situation, and if you die your father will fire me faster than I can say 'he was asking for it'."

Peter watched the guy almost get hit by a silver convertible, which blared its horn at him as he went totally white. He glanced back, saw Peter and took off again, but it was too late and the damage was done. Peter snorted. "Thanks for the concern, Red, but I can handle myself."

Peter threw himself at the other hand, hitting him in the middle of his back and sending the guy face-first into the concrete. The people on the side walk scattered, leaving an open circle around the two men as they struggled. Peter pulled back to get some space and saw the guys had come up, gripping a gun.

Eyes wide, Peter pinned the arm with the weapon and fisted his other hand. He threw his fist at the pinned suspect, putting all his weight behind the hit and knocking the other man unconscious. Peter pushed the gun aside and sat up, breathless but triumphant. It took him a couple of seconds to notice the little black book on the sidewalk beside the thin brunette, and if it hadn't so obviously fallen out of the other man's jacket as he fell, Peter probably would have ignored it.

Peter frowned and picked it up.

Zerstörung durch Fortschritte der Technologie.

"… What the hell…?"

A hand on his shoulder spun him around and threw him into the wall, and a lifetime of con's and thievery had Peter shoving the book into his own jacket before it could be seen. In half a second, both his hands were out and visible, held up in the universal gesture of helplessness.

"Are you deaf, Bishop?" Dunham hissed, eyes gleaming in irritation. Behind her, Peter saw Charlie cuffing the guy on the ground. "I told you to fall back!"

Seeing as she hadn't even glanced down at the little bulge at his side, Peter figured he was safe. Which let him respond naturally to this totally undeserved, overdramatic reaction. He dropped his hands and sneered. "Yeah, and if I'd have listened to you, this guy would be gone, so, uh… I think maybe some thanks are in order?"

She backed off and mirrored his disdainful expression. "Don't push it, Peter. You're only a consultant here – whether you agree with my orders or not, you're contractually obligated to follow them. Are we clear?"

Peter considered – briefly – telling her to kiss his ass, and walking away from all this bullshit. Playing stooge to a couple clueless Fringe agents wasn't what he'd signed on for when he'd told his father he wanted to help, and dealing with the bitchy double of his childhood sweetheart wasn't exactly a perk.

But weirdly, staring at her reminded him of why he was doing this. Because somewhere out there, there was a woman who looked just like Dunham, a woman he'd loved, and she could be counting on him to save her. Her kid sister, her mother… everyone she'd ever known or loved could be counting on him. And whether he liked it or not… the only chance he had of fixing this messed up little situation was to play along.

"Are we clear?"

Peter glared, telling himself for a moment longer that he could do it. He could leave.

But he knew better.

He smiled sharply and leaned in until she flinched back, almost imperceptivity. Face a couple inches from hers, he glanced over her face, taking in the familiar curve of her jaw and the almost-hidden nervous glint in her eyes. Reminding himself all over again why he was doing this.

His smile grew to a mocking grin, and he winked.

"Crystal clear, cupcake." Peter pulled back and strolled back towards the alley he'd came from, careful to keep his posture casual and his voice relaxed as he called back over his shoulder. "I'll be waiting by the car, as ordered. Call me if you need something useful done, alright?"

He looked away, ignoring the irritated sounds behind him and stepping into the dark. He glanced back to make sure he was out of view of prying eyes, and he pulled the little black book free from his coat. Zerstörung durch Fortschritte der Technologie. His German was a little rusty, but he was pretty sure that meant destruction through the growth of technology, or something.

Peter pocketed the book again. He'd have to pay a visit to an old friend who specialized in rare books and see what he could find out about it. It was entirely possible the book was a dead end, but it was at least worth looking in to.

And since his father seemed determined to freeze him out of his little project, Peter saw no point in letting the Secretary in on his side of it.

Peter had been back at the car for almost half an hour – watching the Fringe agents bring out bits and pieces of what had to be the machine they'd mentioned from inside and load them in to trucks – before the cops started backing off the crowd. Peter saw Dunham and the others walking back and climbed in to the car, already knowing what was coming.

They'd just barely slipped past the yellow and black striped barrier when a sudden bloom of colored mist blossomed from the windows starting on the middle floor. Heavier than the nearby air, it slowly floated straight down, hitting the ground about the same time it began to seep from the door and windows. Less than a second later, it began to condense and solidify to the protests of the crowd.

Peter didn't let the obvious air of grief get to him. He had a job to do, and the very first thing he was going to do was get off his ass and stop waiting for his father to involve him. He'd have to start his own investigation, and be very, very careful not to let them see what he was doing.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: <strong>Please forgive any mistakes – didn't really have the time to edit. I'm going to try and keep posting as long as I can, but I'd really like somebody to take over.


	6. Seeing Ghosts

**Disclaimer: **I do not, have not, and will never own the Fringe series.

**AN: **Okay. Posted the same chapter twice. Woops.

Here's the actual chapter. As I said before: I AM GOING ON HIATUS UNTIL I CAN COME UP WITH AN ACTUAL PLOT TO USE HERE. THIS IS NOT FOREVER. I HAVE NOT FORGOTTEN THIS STORY. BUT I HAVE TO COME UP WITH MORE THAN THE OLIVIA/PETER PART BEFORE I CAN KEEP GOING.

**Summary:** When the Observer distracted Walternate from the cure, he changed the world. How would the story have gone if he hadn't?

* * *

><p>Olivia remembered very little of her past.<p>

She had bits and pieces of her childhood – not much more than the feeling of hugging her mother, jumping rope and holding baby Rachel. But before she hit ten, things got… foggy. It wasn't a total loss of memory; you heard about people who woke up after a bad accident thinking they were years younger, and nothing like that had happened to Olivia. She knew who she was and how old she was, and when asked she had automatic responses to all kinds of questions about that time. Where did you live? What age were you when you hit puberty?

She knew all that – the numbers especially. She could recall her middle-school locker combination… but she couldn't recall the school. She wouldn't have recognized a friend from that time in her life (assuming she had any) if they walked up to her and said hello. She could remember who'd been in books she'd read and movies she'd seen as a kid, but not who she'd seen them with or when.

And she remembered feelings, sometimes. People would casually bring up a date as a reference for sports or something random, and she'd find herself smiling or on the brink of tears for no reason she could come up with.

Which is why, even without any memory of the beginnings of their lives, seeing Rachel and Ella felt like coming home. It was both exhausting and rejuvenating to see her now, when everything was going so wrong. Because Olivia didn't really need to pretend to be happy right now – not when she'd just been abducted by an unknown group and Harris of all people was virtually in control of the Fringe Division. And yet, being around someone who cared so much about her, who loved her so much that they actively watched her to make sure she was happy...

This was family, and Olivia had almost forgotten how it felt.

"Wow, Liv," her sister's melodious voice drifted through the door to Olivia's left. "Your kitchen is spotless."

That's because I haven't used it in months.

Olivia smiled, "Uh – yeah, I've been on a bit of a cleaning kick lately..."

It wasn't true, but what else was she supposed to say? Oh yeah, I've actually spent the last few months holed up with a government sanctioned mad scientist in his Harvard Lab. I would've invited you guys to stay there, but I was a bit nervous about Ella playing so close to all that LSD...

Not likely.

Luckily, she didn't have to pay for her room off Walter's lab, so she'd opted to keep her apartment as a back-up. If Walter was ever deemed capable of living on his own or – god forbid – he got sent back to St. Claire's, Olivia would have something to fall back on.

At some point between setting Ella up in front of the TV and going to the bathroom, Olivia's niece had apparently fallen asleep on the couch. Olivia smiled and tip-toed through the living room, ignoring the cartoon harping on about cupcakes behind her, and gently lifted a blanket over the little girl.

She really has grown. Olivia thought fondly as she pushed aside a silky strand of gold hair. Ella looked more like her grandmother than her mother, and that thought made Olivia both pleased and sad. Aside from their coloring, neither of Marilyn's daughters had gotten much of their looks from their mother.

Thoughts of her own childhood raised to the front of her mind before Olivia savagely buried them. Ella would never go through something like that. Her childhood would be peaceful and innocent, and Olivia would shoot anybody who tried to make it otherwise.

Probably more than once.

She leaned forward and kissed the child on the forehead before standing up and making her way back towards the kitchen. Her sister was waiting beside what was left of the spaghetti, a glass of wine in hand.

"You know, I could've cooked for you."

Olivia snorted, making her way toward the sink. "No thanks, I've tasted your cooking."

"Hey!" Rachel gasped dramatically. "I've gotten really good, you know."

"Oh, yeah?" Olivia smiled and glanced toward her sister, absently filling up the sink with hot, soapy water. She never used her dishwasher because she'd never dirtied enough plates in a day to fill it.

Which... was actually kind of depressing.

"Yeah." Olivia's sister crossed her arms, careful to keep her wineglass safely upright. After a second of pouting, a small, oddly prideful smile snuck onto her face. "No, I haven't."

"I didn't think so."

Olivia rinsed off the first dish and put it aside to dry. She tried to hold onto the relaxed energy her sister seemed to exude, but it was hard to do when so much still had to be done. Why'd she been abducted? Who'd even want her, and what had they needed to use a spinal tap for? How were they going to get passed this Harris situation, and could they even really do anything, considering he technically had purview over even Broyles?

How long would he hold off before firing her?

Despite how frightening the abduction had been, the last question was actually the one that haunted her. When all of this had started, a part of Olivia had actually regretted taking the job in Fringe Division – the hours, the unpredictability, the new roommate... None of it had been what she'd actually wanted in a career, and yet she'd been drawn to it. It was a chance to really help people, to make a difference in the world, and that more than anything else had been Olivia's dream.

After a few months, though, it had gone beyond just being driven. Every time a new case came in, Olivia felt...energized. She'd always known the rules before – how things were done, how suspects could be found or eliminated, how to gather evidence that would secure a conviction. And that had been nice enough, except that that knowledge had come with certain limitations. Just because she knew someone had done something, didn't mean she would actually be able to put them behind bars, and just because they were innocent didn't mean she could save them.

But here, in Fringe... those limitations were gone. There were no rules, no hindering red tape, and for the first time in her life, Olivia felt in control. It was strange and paradoxical, and it didn't make any sense, but because the possibilities were endless, Olivia knew there was always something she could do.

And she loved that feeling.

If Harris fired her, would she ever feel that way again?

"Hard day?" Rachel asked, staring at Olivia with narrowed eyes.

"I honestly wouldn't know what to tell you." Olivia smiled and looked back at the dishes. She let her voice grow teasing, even though every word of what she said was serious. "And if I did... It'd be a felony."

Rachel grinned and shook her head. She turned around and poured a second glass of wine, then leaned in next to her sister. "You have a crazy job."

"Yeah. I have a crazy job." Olivia repeated. For now, anyways.

Olivia smiled and, after grabbing the second glass, stretched it out toward her sister.

"Cheers."

The rims of the glassed tapped together with a clink, and both took a long sip.

After Olivia swallowed, she took a second to enjoy the burn of the alcohol sliding down her throat. Eyes closed and heart aching, she let herself dwell for just an instant on the hopelessness of everything. Then that instant passed.

She let it go and turned toward Rachel, only to find her sister looking equally depressed.

Olivia smiled sadly. "You heard from Greg?"

The teary headshake was enough to tell Olivia she'd been right about the source of her sister's pain. Olivia just kept silently smiling. That was usually the best way to get Rachel to open up.

A few seconds later, she did.

"I don't know how to do this alone."

Olivia's heart clenched at the fear in Rachel's voice. She took a step closer and put one hand on her little sister's shoulder.

"Ella is beautiful and smart and strong and she gets that from you." Olivia consoled. Rachel shook her head, tears finally starting to fall.

"No, you've always been the strong one." Rachel refuted. She turned toward the living room, eyes probably fixing on little Ella, asleep on the couch. "I've only done one thing right in my life..."

"Then you need to be strong for her." Olivia's voice gained a bit of an edge, then. She knew how that felt. She knew what it meant to protect someone you love, and to have to hide the weakness. She did it every time she answered Rachel's calls. Dodging her little sister's sweet-natured concern had become almost second nature now. "Whatever you need, I'm here. And you guys can stay as long as you want."

"Thank you." Rachel whispered thickly with a smile.

An odd instinct came to life in the back of her mind, and Olivia's smile turned hesitant. "… Is there something else, something you're not telling me?"

"No, there's nothing else." Rachel replied with a smile, never quite meeting Olivia's eyes. Rachel turned and walked out of the kitchen without another word.

"Well, she's lying."

Olivia froze.

Unable to help herself, Olivia slowly inched her gaze across the kitchen to the wall behind the fridge where the spectre was leaning. It was the boy again – the teenager she'd been seeing off and on ever since Mr. Jones' little light bulb experiment – and he was smiling at her in that calm way he always did. Olivia closed her eyes and clenched her jaw, determined to ignore him.

She'd mentioned him to Walter in the most round-about way she could come up with, and all the old scientist had been able to tell her was that any visitations similar to Johns that hadn't been preceded by an experiment like the one he'd put her through were probably signs of mental instability. She'd posed it as a hypothetical question, but he'd immediately followed up his answer with an offer of free drugs – either to calm the hallucinations or create more vivid ones, should she prefer.

Hypothetically, of course.

Olivia had assured him that wouldn't be necessary and moved on. For the most part it really hadn't been; the boy hadn't visited her anywhere near as often as John had, and although she was still looking for an explanation, most of the time she almost forgot about him.

"Oh, come on, don't be like that." He complained, his tone a little too pleased to sound whining. "You know I'm right."

Olivia opened her eyes and checked to make sure Rachel and Ella were too far away to hear her whisper. "I'm not talking to you."

He watched her for a moment with an unreadable expression on his face, and then shrugged. "If you don't want to, you don't have to. But ignoring me isn't going to make this go away."

"I don't know what you're talking about." She hissed.

He grinned. "I thought you weren't talking to me?"

She sent him a dirty look that only seemed to make him happier. She turned away with a scowl and made to leave the kitchen.

"You really think she doesn't know?"

Despite having no idea what he was talking about, Olivia stopped. She told herself she should keep going – just ignore him and go spend a pleasant evening with her family. But she couldn't bring herself to move.

"You've spent so long hiding from what happened. From who you are. From what you did." He said, voice as calm and gentle as ever. Olivia didn't look at him. "She has questions, you have to know that. But she doesn't push because she knows that you're hiding from it. Because she doesn't want to make you face anything that you aren't ready for."

Olivia watched Rachel bend over the couch with a soft smile, tucking her daughter's hair behind her ear. That was something their mom had done… or Olivia thought she had. She couldn't actually remember.

"But you can't hide from this forever, Olive."

She turned to him this time, and her tone was cold as ice. "I don't know what you are talking about."

He watched her with that same face as before, and then smiled. "Yes you do. You just don't want to look at it, yet. But ignoring me won't make the problem go away, and if you don't find a way to face it, it'll all hit you the moment you're least ready for it."

Olivia blinked, and he was gone.

* * *

><p>Hours later, Olivia slipped out of her cab at Harvard. She was planning to stay at her apartment on and off for as long as Rachel was in town – if only to convince her sister she really was living there – but she couldn't afford to leave Walter alone for too long. Luckily, Astrid had agreed to babysit the old man every now and then for the time being.<p>

She was almost to the lab when Broyles stepped around the corner ahead of her. She could see how serious he was by the tilt of his head and the oddly closed expression in his eyes. He had something important to tell her. Something he didn't think she'd like. "Olivia. We need to talk."

"Oh?"

"I realize this has been difficult for you." Broyles continued, glancing toward the empty doorway. "Until recently, our Division hasn't needed more than a few agents active at a time – and most of them have been deployed in long term undercover missions. As one of our only current agents on the field, this recent increase on activity has fallen to you."

He went quiet, still staring at the doorway, but his mind was obviously a million miles away. Olivia cleared her throat and waited until he turned to face her. "What're you getting at, sir?"

"I'm going to assign you a partner."

For a long, horrible moment, Olivia couldn't breathe.

A partner?

Like John?

"With all do respect, sir, I don't need –" Olivia began to protest, but Broyles cut her off. That introspective look had morphed into something a little bit harder. "This is not up for discussion, Ms. Dunham."

Olivia almost opened her mouth to protest again, but the way the skin tightened around his eyes told her not to bother. He'd made up his mind. Instead, she crossed her arms and tilted her chin upward, furious at being trapped like this. "Who?"

Broyles paused for a moment, sharp eyes locked on her face. "We are investigating promising agents. Fringe being what it is –"

She saw her out and jumped on it. "Sir, I'd like to formally suggest Agent Charlie Francis."

"... Excuse me?" Broyles blinked.

"Charlie Francis. He's a good man. He knows how to keep a secret, and he's one of the best field agents I've ever worked with. More importantly –"

"Out of the question."

"– I trust... What?" Olivia, still in the middle of presenting her case, almost didn't hear him. That hopeful feeling was fading just as quickly as it'd formed. But if it wasn't going to be Charlie, then who? And how would she ever learn to trust another person now? "Why the hell not?"

Broyles gave her a mildly scolding look for the curse. "Because you trust him."

"I..." Olivia stuttered, confusion and building hurt bubbling up in her voice. "I don't understand. Is this... Is this because of my relationship with John Scott?"

"No, Olivia. Your judgment is not in question."

"Then why?" Olivia blurted, hating herself for her obvious emotions. For any other debate, she'd be able to keep control – her face, her voice, her mannerisms; she'd long ago perfected faking calm. But this... The whole idea of bringing a stranger into her life, of letting somebody she didn't know watch her back... She'd trusted John implicitly. She couldn't take another betrayal.

Broyles expression shifted slightly again. That seemed to be a habit of his, actually – he never made exaggerated facial expressions. Whatever he let show was always small, but intense. Constant eye contact, no excess movement... all of his body language dedicated to each tiny smile, every microscopic scowl. Now even the slight furrow between his eyebrows told Olivia he was frustrated.

"Tell me something." He finally responded, eyes – as always – focused firmly on her face. "If Charlie did join the Division and somewhere along the line you began to suspect his loyalties... What would you do?"

Olivia grit her teeth against the automatic response, I'd report it. She could imagine several different situations that would lead her to believe somebody was defecting when they weren't. To say she'd turn Charlie in when Broyles hadn't even bothered to describe a specific scenario... it would be a lie.

Broyles' smiled faintly. "He was aware of your relationship with John, Ms. Dunham. And despite the fact that he knew it was against protocol, he did not report it."

This time, Olivia felt a deep rooted disbelief. Charlie was a good man who'd been protecting his friends! How could Broyles think he was a bad person for that? "You can't seriously be saying that you blame Charlie for Scott's defection! You let me in, and I was sleeping with him –"

"Exactly." Broyles stepped forward, mere inches from her face now, and when he continued his voice was filled with a thousand tiny sharp edges. "You broke the rules, Olivia. And to keep you from losing your job, he kept that information to himself. As an FBI agent, that was bad enough –"

"He didn't –"

"But as a Fringe operative, even something as simple as that could potentially cost people their lives. There are no secrets in this Division. There can't be."

"… Are you kidding me? Of course there are secrets, this entire Division is based on investigating things we can't even tell other agents in the FBI –"

"There will be no further discussion on this."

Olivia stopped mid-sentence, mouth gaping open in shock. It took a moment to register the rigid stance he'd taken, to realize that nothing she could say was going to change his mind right now… and then she seethed.

"Yes, sir." She snapped, her own subtle expression just as intense as his.

His gaze was flat and unimpressed. He waited a few seconds in silence as if expecting her to argue further before he nodded and turned to walk away.

"Regardless, we already have another agent in mind."

Olivia swallowed. "Oh?"

* * *

><p><strong>*_On the Other Side_*<strong>

Peter stayed in the car this time.

He'd started to actually settle in, lately; he'd even helped break a couple of decent cases, which had done a world of good in getting most of the Fringe Agents off his back. Dunham still didn't like him, and Lincoln was caught between supporting his crush and his need to be professional, but Charlie at least seemed to finally feel like Peter was a part of the group.

Still, that didn't mean he liked handling breaches any more now than he had before.

He took another sip, listening to somebody in the crowd start to cry. None of the Fringe employees showed any sign of guilt or sadness, or even seemed to notice the atmosphere. Not that Peter was surprised – he'd tagged along on a number of these little trips by now, and one thing he'd learned pretty quick was that the employees of Fringe were totally convinced of the morality of their job, and after having done it as long as they had, they'd gotten fairly good at tuning out the collateral damage.

Without a sound, Peter turned back to his book.

_We think we understand reality, but our universe is only one of many. The unknown truths of the way to travel between them has already been discovered by beings much like us but who's history is slightly ahead of our own. The negative aspects of such visitations will be irreversible both to our world and to theirs. It will begin with a series of unnatural occurrences, difficult to notice at first, but growing, not unlike a cancer, till a simple fact becomes undeniable; only one world will survive. It will either be us… or them._

It was one of the first paragraphs of the book, but Peter had come back to read it almost a dozen times. He'd realized after translating the title that this book was the mirror image of his father's best-selling – and almost entirely _bullshit_ – best seller. But aside from the name, the two books were nothing alike. For one thing, his father's book was still in print; Peter had never seen a copy as old and beaten up as the one he'd found on the guy they'd arrested. This thing looked almost _antique_.

That should've been his first clue, actually. The one that had actually caught his attention was the line "_slightly ahead of our own_". He'd seen the other world, and judging by the technology and styles he'd seen through the Window, this book had to have come from the other side. From Olivia's side.

Realizing that had instantly made him feel like he was a hundred times closer to his goal than before. But it had caused just as many problems in his mind, because of one simple problem.

His father's book was different because it had been all about taking an optimistic view of a grim reality. Granted, that reality was actually a massive fiction his father had created to keep people from discovering an even darker truth, but still. Silver linings, right? This, though… this was brutally upfront about what was really going on, and Peter would've been impressed by the sheer boldness of it if the tone and general violence of it hadn't read more like a terrorists manifesto than a scientific study.

It was undeniable proof that at least _someone_ on the other side was actively planning not just war with Peter's world, but the destruction of it.

That didn't mean anything, of course. For one thing, this book wasn't anywhere near as popular as his father's – the amateur publishing style alone was proof of that. And just because there was one psycho over there _somewhere_ wanting to destroy Peter's world didn't mean the entire population on the other side agreed with him.

Peter rubbed the spine of the book and absently let it fall closed.

All it really meant was that he'd have to work faster and smarter. He wasn't just up against his father, anymore – he was up against someone on the other side, too.

He'd been developing some things on his own using technology he'd run across on different cases. He'd also been working on developing a Window of his own, and although he was sure he was working more quickly than his father would (as Bishop had always been more of a biologist to Peter's mechanist), he was still only about halfway there.

He needed to start cutting corners.

"Alright," Charlie said, his voice muffled through the metal shell of the SUV. Peter casually reached up and tucked the book in an inside pocket of his leather jacket. "Time to go home."

"Yeah, right." Dunham scoffed cheerfully, coming up to stand next to the vehicle Peter was sitting in. She pulled open the door and instantly the sound got clearer. "You're just trying to get out of buying that round of beers."

"You guys had inside information." Charlie argued, out of sight. "You talked to that old lady, remember?"

"So what?" Dunham laughed.

Lincoln piped up from somewhere. "Doesn't count. Witnesses are never reliable about Breaches."

Dunham smiled and cocked one shoulder, pulling on the innocently playful expression that always seemed to get her what she wanted. Peter looked away, still a little disconcerted to see somebody who looked so much like Olive do something so obviously... not.

"Admit it, Charlie." She wrinkled her nose. "You're just being a cheapskate."

There was a moment of silence before Charlie apparently gave some sign of his answer. Olivia's smile grew and she nodded back towards where the other two voices had come from. "Let me just drop Bishop off first, and we'll meet you there."

"Bring him along." Charlie insisted, after the smallest of hesitations.

Dunham's grin dimmed immediately, and the silence that followed was awkward. Peter was just about ready to speak up and tell them he had other plans when Dunham's grin came back and she shrugged. "Yeah, sure. See you there."

He didn't try to argue the decision; in fact, he figured it would probably be best if he went along with this unexpected gesture of friendship and made an effort. If nothing else, showing an allied front to Walter might be exactly the push he needed to let Peter in on his dealings with the alternate dimension.

For a long time they sat in total silence, Dunham casting him less than covert looks as he did his best to totally ignore her. After a while she got visibly twitchy and sighed.

"Okay. Look." Dunham said, hands tightening on the wheel. "I know you don't like me, and to be honest, I don't really like you either. But for whatever reason Charlie actually _does_ seem to like you, so I think the two of us are just going to have to start being civil to each other."

Peter glanced at her, wondering if he should point out that he wasn't usually the uncivil one. After a second of silence, he reluctantly decided against it; he'd had a couple pretty bad moments himself.

He sighed and made an impulsive decision to be honest. "It's not that I don't like you, Dunham, it's just... It's complicated, and you really don't want to know."

Dunham glanced at him again, and the little half smile he'd come to realize was a nervous tic of hers pulled at the corner of her mouth. "Oh, yeah? You ever think maybe I have a right to know? I mean, considering you've only been pulling this disagreeable ass act with me."

Peter rolled his eyes and strongly considered ignoring her. He hadn't lied when he said it hadn't been about her – it was about Olive, and how ridiculously uncomfortable it was to have one of the most confused and painful pieces of his childhood shoved in his face on a daily basis. But ultimately… it really _wasn't_ her fault.

He took a breath and looked at the window, already mentally editing out all the important bits.

"You remind me of someone."

Olivia blinked and, after a moment of silence, turned an incredulous look his way. "That's… that's _it_? That's your whole problem with me?"

Peter glared at the windshield. "A girl I met knew I was young." He finally started, thinking back to the first time he'd seen her in the grass, all huddled up and scared. "I didn't have a lot of friends, but she was one of them. We pretty much grew up together…"

He trailed off into silence, remembering all the little things they'd done together. She'd taught him how to play poker. He'd taught her how to roll a coin over her knuckles. They'd ridden bikes to the river when it was warm and made snow people in the meadow every winter. Years…

They'd been friends for years.

He came back to himself then. He cleared his throat awkwardly and turned to stare out his window. From there he could see Dunham's reflection peeking at him from the driver's seat.

He decided not to tell her that they'd dated. That would just lean way too close to some kind of cheesy pick-up line – telling her that she reminded him of an old girlfriend – and he wouldn't cheapen the story that way.

"I found out her step dad was beating her and I… I don't know, I guess I thought I could help her. We had this plan to run away together, but she never showed up. I looked for her later and couldn't find her. After a while, I just... I gave up."

He didn't say anything else, but he didn't have to. Dunham got the point.

Peter could still remember that day. Showing up in the clearing with a suitcase and the biggest smile on his face, expecting to see her standing there, smiling back. When he'd realized she wasn't where she should be, he hadn't been worried – she'd probably just been held up. But she'd get there.

Then hours had passed, and Peter had gotten frantic. At the time he'd had absolutely no doubts that she'd have shown up, if she could have. If she wasn't there, then something had to have kept her.

He'd spent weeks looking for her. He'd asked the police department, the hospitals. The morgue. But nobody had been able to tell him anything about a blonde, seventeen year old girl in the area. Eventually, he'd started to believe that either she was dead and buried somewhere where no one had found her yet, or she'd just changed her mind and hadn't had the guts to tell him.

Of course, now he knew better.

Although, he thought with a sick little burst of nausea. That doesn't mean she isn't dead.

"What happened to her?" Dunham asked, voice hushed.

Peter glanced at her, taking in the rapt sympathy in her eyes, and smiled sadly. He didn't buy it for a moment. Oh, she felt bad for him, but the intimacy of her reaction had more to do with the whole good listener vibe she used so well on witnesses and criminals alike than with him. "I don't know. She never showed up."

The look of pity on her face made Peter want to cringe – he didn't want to see that look on that face right now. He fought back the urge, leaned his head back and closed his eyes so he didn't have to see it anymore.

"I'm sorry." She said softly, and the lack of any bite to her voice told him he'd made a wise decision in telling her. He felt vulnerable and depressed, having pulled upon an old would to share it with somebody he barely knew. But his mind was already running through the pros and cons of the choice, projecting different responses, planning ahead. If she spilled the story to Walter, the things he'd said and implied wouldn't give away anything that would hurt his cause – it would probably even convince his father he was bonding – and if she didn't, his telling her would serve to gain the support of good ally.

It was the right choice.

But damn if it hadn't made him feel just a little bit dirty.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:<strong> Please forgive any mistakes – didn't really have the time to edit. I'm going to try and keep posting as long as I can, but I'd really like somebody to take over.

HIATUS HIATUS HIATUS.


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